Page 3 of Forever To Me

“This way,” he says as he grabs my hand, breaking me outof my trance as he guides me through the bar and out the back door. The crisp, cool spring air hits me in full force, and I shiver as I follow him to his truck.

It’s exactly what I would expect from him. Big, black, with a push bar on the front. Dressed head-to-toe in black, it suits him. Everything about this man is rugged, and intense in a way that draws me in. He’s got the whole dark and mysterious thing down.

I wait beside the truck, my fingers curled into my palms, trying not to look at him as he rounds the hood. The night air is thick, charged with something unspoken, something I couldn’t fully describe. But I feel it—heavy in my chest, warm in my stomach.

When he reaches my side, he doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches past me, his broad frame so close that I catch the faintest whiff of cedar and leather, the scent of him wrapping around me like a slow, deliberate tease.

The door opens, and finally, he glances down at me, those warm hazel eyes flickering in the dim light.

“Need a hand?” His voice is smooth and steady, with just enough rasp to make me shiver.

I could have said no. I should have. But instead, I nod, my breath catching as his hands come to my hips—big, strong hands that settle against me like they belong there.

Heat surges through me, sharp and sudden, as he lifts me effortlessly. For a moment, I lose myself in the press of his grip, the way his fingers curl just right, the warmth of his touch burning straight through my jeans.

I grab onto his forearms without thinking, feeling the strength beneath his shirt, the flex of muscle as he hoists me up into the seat. For a second, just before he lets go, his thumbs brush the bare sliver of skin between my waistband and shirt, a whisper of contact that sends a shock wave through me.

Then, just as quickly, he pulls back.

I barely have time to catch my breath before he leans in again.

The cab feels smaller, the space between us nonexistent as he reaches for the seatbelt. My pulse stutters, my eyes locking onto the way his fingers move—slow, methodical, careful. He isn’t touching me, not really, but I feel him everywhere.

The belt slides across my torso, the buckle clicking into place with a sharp finality.

My breath tangles in my throat.

His face is so close now that if I shifted just a little, I’d brush against the rough stubble on his jaw. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something but thinks better of it.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the soft hum of the night around us, the distant chirp of crickets, the wild pounding of my heartbeat.

His gaze drops—just for a second—to my mouth.

Then he exhales, slow and measured like he’s fighting something. Like he feels it, too.

“Safe now,” he murmurs, his voice lower, rougher.

And then he’s gone, stepping back, shutting the door with a quiet click.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Because if that was just him helping me into a damn truck, I’m not sure how I’ll survive whatever comes next.

Without a word, he rounds the truck and climbs behind the wheel. The engine growls as he adjusts the controls, cranking up the heat. Then, as if he could read my mind, he reaches into the back seat and hands me a jacket. Black, of course, and soft as butter. I slide it on over my leather jacket that is cute but not warm. He doesn’t say a word, the simple gesture carrying more weight for me than it probably should. I’m not used to having aman care about me in little ways like this and anticipate my needs. Let alone a man I just met.

“I…I don’t ever do this,” I stammer, nerves starting to take over as I rub my palms together and slide my arms into the jacket. It smells like him, and I hope he never wants it back because I want to keep it forever.

“Do what, Red?” he asks as his lip twitches.

And I want to kiss him again.

Red.

It's not a new nickname that I haven’t heard all my life with my red hair, but somehow, him calling me Red is sexy as hell. I like the sound of it on his lips.

“I mean…do you do this…often?” I ask, not wanting to be a notch on his bedpost. “I’m not judging, just wondering,” I add nervously.

“You’d be the first,” he says, his eyes on me, and surprise fills me at his honestly. Suddenly, I realize he might be just as nervous as I am. His eyes say it all. I’m telling you; it’s always the eyes that give away a person’s emotions.

He glances back over at me. “You make a habit of picking up random men and making them your fake boyfriends?”

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