Page 47 of Peaches

When she eventually leaves to meet her parents for dinner, I’m still battling the onslaught of thoughts about Rhett and the things we did. At least it’s enough to drown out the worry about Mom and Céline and anything else I could possibly be bothered about.

I finally make it home around seven, immediately opening a bottle of wine I’d saved in the pantry. It’s too chilly to enjoy it on my front porch where I normally like to decompress, so instead I decide to pull a warm blanket over my lap on the velvet couch that takes up most of my living room, a candle lit on the coffee table in front of me throwing off a calming scent of jasmine. For the most part, I think it’s nice to live alone, to find reprieve in the quiet space that surrounds my little bungalow. But there are nights like tonight when a loneliness takes root, seeping through the cracks of my long-worn armor, and I wish for someone to sit with. To share all of these fears and dreams andthoughtswith.

I’m about to call it a night just before nine when the unmistakable sound of an engine rumbles outside the house, somewhere in the distance. It gets louder with every heartbeat that passes, and soon mine is flying behind my ribs as I whirl to peek through the shutters of my front window. I’m stunned to find Rhett pulling up the drive like a black knight right out of my deepest, darkest fantasies.

I have the front door open before he even makes it to the porch. He tugs off his helmet to reveal a tired face, eyes worn and the skin around his mouth heavy. “Rhett,” I breathe.

His mouth curves just enough to make me shudder. “Peaches.”

“What are you doing here?”

He begins to say something before thinking better of it, his lips sealing shut with a tight press. His eyes bounce between mine before he eventually shrugs, his jaw tight. “Is this okay?”

“Of course! Come in.” His broad frame slips into the house. Where a cowboy hat normally sits on his head, unruly black waves stick to his temples in a disheveled mop. “Are you okay?” I ask, worry spiking as I take in the slow way he moves into the living room, where I urge him to take a seat.

“Yeah.” He nods. But I don’t quite believe him.

“You don’t have to work tonight?”

“Already off. It was slow.”

“The café too,” I say. “I’m glad you came.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he looks around the room. He’s already seen my house, but the way his eyes trace the furniture and scattered plants, it feels like the first time. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I . . . we didn’t say when we’d see each other again, and I—” Oh god. I already sound clingy.

His eyes move to me, something dark pulsing behind them. “You thought I wouldn’t stick around after that?”

“Not exactly.” I force a smile. “I just didn’t know when I should try to reach out.” He’d given me his phone number when he brought me home after . . . well,after, but I couldn’t bring myself to use it.

“You can reach out whenever you want to, Olivia. Anytime.”

The words warm my cheeks. “I guess that’s part of all this, huh? Learning the ropes on how to communicate.”

His eyes pulse with that icy heat. “Guess so,” he agrees.

It becomes more and more obvious that something’s wrong. His hands are clenched in his lap, the hard set of his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. “Are you really okay?” I try again.

This time, he blows out a breath. “It’s been a really hard week,” he says quietly.

I lift my hand between us, braving a touch. The rough stubble of his cheek scrubs across my palm, and his skin—he’sfreezing. I frown.

An idea hits me. “Do you trust me?”

His eyes flare. Whether he realizes it’s the same question he asked me before we went inside that apartment, I’m not sure, but his answer is almost as quick as mine. “Yes.”

I smile. Bite the inside of my cheek. “Stay here. Give me a couple minutes.”

I don’t wait for him to respond. Moving into the small bathroom in the hallway, I work to draw hot water in the tub, lighting the three candles I have spread around the bathroom. It takes about ten minutes to fill, the water hot enough for traces of steam to cling to the cold mirror above the sink.

When I steal a glance back out to the living room, I find Rhett’s head tilted back against the top of the couch, his eyes closed. There’s a low dip in the corners of his lips, proof of whatever it is he’s fighting through. It makes my heart ache. “Rhett?” His eyes snap open and he turns to face me. The moonlight paints half of his face, leaving the other half shrouded in shadows, and I see it then: the dichotomy of who he is. “Come here.”

I watch as he rises, long limbs and hard lines. He moves to follow me into the bathroom where the warm bath waits, eyeing it curiously. The surface of the water holds a layer of bubbles and, well, I may have gone a little overboard. “For you or for me?”

My heart pounds. “For you.”

He hums, the sound rumbling in the space between us. Winding my palms up his chest, I push off the work jacket he wears so well and unbutton the shirt beneath. He doesn’t help, but he doesn’t move away either. He watches me closely, and I feel the heat of that gaze like a physical touch.

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