Page 69 of Forgotten Pieces

He presses a hand to my cheek. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to kiss you again.”

I smile and pull away from him, slowly walking backward. “I guess you’ll just have to text me then.”

He shakes his head as he bites his thumb. “Seven for a secret?”

“Always.” With that, I turn around and head to my car, feeling lighter than I have in years.

Chapter Twenty-One

Ryder

What was I thinking when I invited Tacoma over for dinner?

I wasn’t thinking. My dick was. Every moment I spend with her my mind runs wild like we did when we were younger. I never should have told her I needed her as a friend. I saw the look on her face when I said it. She looked devastated. And the only reason I can think is because she is starting to feel something too.

We were fire and brimstone back in the day. Our passion was never a problem. Our conversations were never a problem. But we were a secret. A secret we had to keep from everyone. And now with every day I spend with her or talk to her on the phone, I feel like she is my secret once more. I should feel bad. I should feel like I am doing something wrong to Shelley. But I don’t. Because that fire that sparked between us eight years ago is burning again. And it won’t be long before one of us gives in to the blaze.

I’m sautéing vegetables when I hear Tacoma pull in the driveway. I turn the heat on low and place a lid over the top as I grab a towel and wipe my hands as I approach the front door. I throw the towel over my shoulder as I watch her jump out of the car. She has always been the most beautiful woman I have ever known. And despite me knowing that should be wrong, I cannot deny it.

Her long chocolate hair settles over her chest in waves. Her hourglass figure prominent in the dress she has on. In Tacoma fashion, she is wearing impractical footwear for a gravel driveway, black wedges, a step up from the stilettos I would see her wear in the cornfields. As she gets closer to the lights of the house, I can see the dark purple of her dress brings out the emerald color of her eyes. Eyes that are smoked out with makeup. A small smile sits on her perfectly pink pout and I can’t help but smile back. I know we are both thinking things we shouldn’t be thinking, memories so old but they seem so fresh. It feels like no time has passed at all.

“Hey birdie,” I murmur. My mind realizing the mistake of calling her by her old nickname too late.

She stumbles up the steps at the words, a small sob comes out of her. I catch her elbow before she hits the top step. “I haven’t heard that in years. Except at Easton’s wedding.”

“It was an accident. But it’s still the truth. You are gonna fly away again one day. I promise you that.”

She looks up into my eyes and I am tempted to brush my thumb under her eye where tears are forming but I let her go and take a step back.

She smooths out her dress, her eyes averted to the ground. “One day,” she says sheepishly.

I walk into the house and she follows behind me. I’m kicking myself for letting her old nickname slip from my lips. I don’t have the right to call her that. And that nickname stirs up feelings in both of us. I need to distract myself before I do something stupid.

I head back to my vegetables and stir them. Tacoma sits on one of the bar stools at the island and watches me cook. We sit in silence for a few minutes, just the soft sounds of jazz music playing in the background before she breaks it. “When was the last time you had company?”

“Here? Last night with you,” I say, not letting my eyes look at her.

“Yeah, not what I meant,” she replies. “When was the last time you had anyone over that wasn’t Mac?”

I just shrug, not really getting her point.

“And here I thought you were raised a true southern gentleman.”

I snort at that because we both know it’s not true.

“It’s courteous to ask your guest if she wants a drink.”

I roll my eyes at her because we both know she is far from being a courteous southern woman who would even care. “Drinks are in the fridge. Help yourself.”

She groans as she jumps off her bar stool. “Ass,” she mutters as she walks over to the fridge.

I glance over my shoulder as I watch her open it. She bends at the waist a bit to shift food around to find a drink. My dick twitches at the sight of her ass. It’s a perfect peach. It was nice before but I can tell she works out a lot by the way the tight dress clings to every curve. I bite my lip as I picture my hands roaming over that ass, gripping it hard as my mouth devours hers.

“What the hell, Ryder?” I startle as she says it, thinking she saw me checking her out. Instead she is pulling out plates of home-cooked food. “You have had this kitchen unpacked for one day and there is seriously six different meals in here.”

“I—ugh—I like to watch the food network. There isn’t much to do around here. I’ve kind of gotten into recreating what I see on TV.”

She looks at me with a sly grin. “You are something else. You better be cookin’ me up something good then.”

---