Page 30 of Peaches

I smile. “Of course.”

Giving her my arm, I lead her toward the hallway where there’s a side door to the smaller lot my brothers and I use for shifts. We pass Wells along the way and I tell him I’ll be back soon, thankful he doesn’t ask any questions—not after he sees Olivia’s face.

We’re in front of her little house on the edge of the brush within minutes, but by the time we get there, Olivia’s emotions have morphed from sadness into something much calmer. She’s quiet as I pull off her helmet and walk her to the door, and she doesn’t say anything as she unlocks it and walks inside, leaving it open behind her.

I take a deep breath, watching her linger from the threshold. It’s a bad idea for me to go in there—I need to get back to the bar—but the need to trail behind her, to make sure she’s okay, is almost overwhelming.

The wooden floor creaks under my weight when I take the first step in. Olivia has disappeared around a corner, and I’m not sure if she wanted me to follow her or not. Hell, I’m not even sure she wants me inside this house . . . but she didn’t say good night. And I should at least say good night, right?

I close the door behind me, keeping the chill out. The house is warm. Comfortable. “Olivia?” I call out, scared to death to move any further.

“One sec,” she calls back. “I’m just changing real quick.”

Blood heats my neck as I hear the unmistakable sound of clothes rustling, and I keep my feet planted right the fuck where I am, rooted to the floor.

I distract myself by looking round the dark room, lit only by the glow of a light down the hall. She has an oversized cream couch tucked into the corner of her living room, perched on top of a light-colored rug. Pink, maybe? There are houseplants everywhere, vines running down from the ceiling, tracing along a bookshelf. Her coffee table is made of wood, and it’s covered in candles.

When she eventually rounds the corner, she’s wearing thick wool socks and a baggy crewneck sweater that skims her thighs. Her smile is loose and teasing as strands of her strawberry-golden hair fall chaotically around her face. She’s sexy as hell, and I can’t stop staring.

“Do you want to stay?” she asks, voice quiet as she stands right in front of me.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Slowly, she nods, her eyes dropping to my mouth.

I feel it in an instant: the fear. The way it winds through me and tightens with an uncomfortable grip. The way this suddenly feels like I have something real to lose, like I might not have understood the risks when I offered myself to her and now I’m forced to learn the consequences of that impulsivity. But it’s not enough for me to back away, to politely wish her a good night and force my feet back out the door.

It makes mewant. Because I can’t remember the last time I had something of my own to lose.

My hands wrap around her waist as I step forward, pushing her against the nearest wall. She gasps, the sound so sweet it spears through me, and I almost lose my mind. Her chest flutters with quick breaths and I want so bad to feel it, to slide my hand up her ribs and over her collarbone. “You’ve had too much to drink,” I say, a reminder more for myself.

She closes her eyes, goosebumps trailing along her slender neck. Her skin is flushed and pulsing. “Probably,” she whispers.

My mouth tugs into a grin, eyes tracing down the lines of her jaw, the column of her throat, drinking her in like the glutton that I am. I bend down to press my nose below her ear, breathing in that intoxicating scent. “You’re wearing it again.”

“Hm?” she hums.

My smile grows, lips brushing against her skin. And then I force myself to pull away from her, taking a wide step back. “You need to sleep.”

Her eyes open again and find mine. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”

I nod. “Sure. I can do that.”

She hooks a finger into mine, gently leading me toward her room. When she reaches the bed, she lifts the covers with her free hand and slips between the blankets but doesn’t let go of me. Instead, she pulls me toward her, closer. “Lie with me.”

It takes everything in me to breathe deep through the mix of panic and need and growing fear. But I manage to get enough of a grip that I’m able to swallow down the emotion and throw her a smirk. “Be good, peaches,” I tease, hoping it doesn’t sound like the plea it is.

“Promise,” she murmurs, closing her eyes as she nestles into her pillow.

I ease myself over her, curling around her body until my chest is against her back and my knees are hooked into hers. She lets out a deep, rumbling sigh, and I let it wash over me: her comfort. This contentment. Like I’ve somehow stumbled home after being lost for years. The implication of how good it feels flares and I can’t help but feel like, at any moment, a door will slam and I’ll realize I’m actually in someone else’s house and I’ve overstayed my welcome.

She’s snoring lightly a mere ten minutes later. I skim a single finger down her hairline, careful not to wake her. She didn’t mention the letter again, but I have a strong suspicion that it’s her mother somehow keeping her from exploring more with her other family. I want to tell her to be brave. To be selfish.

To be happy.

When it’s obvious she’s out for the night, I press a small kiss to her forehead and pull her covers over her arms before gently lifting myself off the bed and making my way back toward the front door. As soon as I reach it, I realize I don’t have a way to lock her in.

Fuck.

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