Page 132 of Holding On To Good

She couldn’t just dig it out and hand it over to him. It was too big. Would be too painful.

No, she had to chip away at it. Share with him bits and pieces.

Too big of a chunk would only give him the ability to break her heart again.

“You were right,” she repeated. “It didn’t work.”

“It?” he asked quietly, as if he didn’t know damn well she was referring to their conversation in the parking lot earlier.

“It didn’t work. Having a drink with Finn didn’t make anything go away. It…” She stopped and licked her suddenly dry lips and Urban’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there. “It didn’t make me forget,” she continued, breathless, tremulous, “it’s you I really want.”

He went utterly motionless and for several long moments, the only sound between them was the harsh drag of his breathing, the unsteadiness of hers. Then he slowly drew his gaze up to her eyes and the heat in the dark depths, the desire, weakened her knees.

It’s killing me not to touch you right now.

She’d heard the truth in his words, in the low, rough tone of his voice when he’d said it moments before. Saw it now in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his hands were fisted, his chest rising and falling rapidly with the effort it took him not to reach for her.

She wanted him to. She wanted him to take control. To make the decision for them both.

But he didn’t.

She’d have to reach for him.

No doubts. No fears. No regrets. That was what he wanted from her. But she couldn’t give him that. Could only give him this moment where what she wanted was bigger than her doubts. Stronger than her fears.

And worth more than a few regrets.

But taking that first step, literally, seemed impossible. He was watching her too intently. If she wasn’t careful, he’d see too much.

And regrets would be the least of her worries.

Breaking eye contact, she focused on his chest, kept her gaze there, on the soft, gray material of his T-shirt as she moved one foot, then the other, until they stood mere inches apart. Still staring at that safe spot, she lifted her hand and laid the tips of her fingers there, hand cupped over the center of his chest.

As if caging his heart.

He inhaled sharply. Emboldened, she edged closer and flattened her hand against him, so that the rhythm of his heart, quick and steady, pulsed against her palm. Kept it there until her own heartbeat synched with his.

Then she lifted her head, gaze skimming over his bearded jaw, letting her attention settle on the firm line of his lips for a moment, then two. Imagined the feel of his mouth against hers again, building the anticipation. The desire. He exhaled, a long, heavy breath that ruffled her bangs.

Kept his hands at his sides.

She moved her gaze up to the strong slope of his nose then skimmed it over his cheekbones. Everything about him was so achingly familiar; the shape of his eyebrows, and the fall of his dark hair across his forehead. The thin scar near his left temple where a pitch caught him senior year. Without thought, she lifted her free hand to that mark, traced it with her fingertip.

He was all tension and restraint, his body practically vibrating.

She shifted her gaze to his, head tipped back, lips parted.

It was as clear an invitation as a person could give.

But he still didn’t touch her.

Didn’t give her the kiss she so desperately craved.

“Urban,” she said, the two syllables conveying equal notes of frustration and pleading.

“Did you kiss him?”

She slid her hand from his forehead to hang uselessly at her own side. “What?”

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