Page 31 of Peaches

The last thing I want to do is wake her up again, but I refuse to leave her sleeping in an unlocked house. If anything were to happen?—

A thought hits me, and I wonder if it’ll work.

Stepping outside into the chilly night air, I shut her door behind me. And then I pull out my wallet and hope like hell it’s still tucked in there . . . I haven’t used it in years. But a lockpick meant to open doors can surely secure them too.

When I find the slender piece of metal, I fiddle with the keyhole on her door.

And when the lock finally clicks, I smile.

CHAPTERTWELVE

OLIVIA

Ican tell before I even open my eyes that I’ve slept through most of the morning. The room is bright and warm on the other side of my eyelids, and if the sun’s pouring into my room like this, it’s already high in the sky.

Taking a quick inventory of the memories I have from last night, I realize the whiskey and wine are the likely culprits behind the sour twinge in my stomach. But my head doesn’t pound like I expect it to, which is a small relief. And then I remember the bartender who served me that whiskey and wine, and the letter that brought me to him in the first place.

I quickly open a single eye, squinting against the bright light and wondering if he’s still here somewhere. But the house is quiet, and after a sweep around the room, I find nothing beyond my usual furniture and mess of clothes. Stretching the muscles in my arms and legs, I turn over in bed to face the open door that leads to the hall. Something catches my eye on the nightstand by my bed, and I sit up to look.

There’s a full glass of water sitting next to the bottle of pain reliever he must have found in my medicine cabinet, and tucked between the two is a folded piece of paper. I snatch it, opening to read a messy, handwritten note on what looks like a gas station receipt.

Be brave. And hydrate.

-Rhett

My heart leaps into a fit of acrobatics as I carefully read the four words again and again. Then I trace along the letters of his name, something a lot like longing winding through me, which I promptly work to tamp down. I close my eyes as visions of him pushing me against my wall come rearing to the surface, knocking a breath loose from my dry lips.

The way his fingers gripped my waist.

The quiet hunger in his silver eyes.

I pull open the drawer of my nightstand and slip the note inside before closing it again with a small thud. Ignoring the medicine—I just need to eat something to ease my stomach—I down the whole glass of water before forcing myself from the comfort of my bed.

The urge to push through my front door to feel the fresh morning air from my front porch drives me to pad down the hallway. It’s been so chilly lately that I crave the sun’s warm rays against my skin, and my house is secluded enough from neighbors that I’m not worried about my lack of pants.

But the door doesn’t open like I expect it to when I twist the knob. It’s locked.

Frowning, I turn to the console table against the wall by the door and spot my keys right where I left them. My mom has the only other set . . . How did Rhett lock the door behind him? Is he still here? I crane my neck to peer into the living room and then the kitchen, but I don’t see him anywhere.

Definitely not still here.

Anticipation slithers across my skin, an instinctual reminder of who Rhett is and the things he’s done. How it might be just as easy for him to lock a door without a key as it is to unlock one. He isn’t like anyone else I know, and based on the way I keep baiting him to kiss me, the way he already feels like a high I want to keep chasing . . . I remind myself to be careful.

What if this is just a game for him? I’m also not like most girls he typically . . . associates with. Maybe he’s toying with me, seeing how far he can take the inexperienced girl in town over the edge for fun.

Would that even be wrong though, considering we fully discussed this was meant to be practice for me? It’s not like I told him I had any physical limits besides sex, and I’m the one who kissed him first. Was it overstepping boundaries, the way he held on to me last night? The way his fingers dug into my skin hard enough it felt like he was struggling to let go?

No, it wasn’t.

Hell, I’m the one who marched into his bar last night crying, looking for . . . I don’t even know what. Consolation? Advice from a friend? Are we friends?

I groan. This is way too much of a mental war to be waging on an empty stomach. I don’t want to overthink this—that was the whole point, to let loose. To have fun.

I turn the deadbolt and push out the front door. I have the whole day off work and absolutely nowhere to be. A rarity, considering I’m almost constantly at the café. It’s nice to feel the promise of . . . nothing. At least for a little while, and on what looks to be a beautiful day. Maybe I could hike some of the trails just outside of town and get lost in the brush. Or maybe I could convince Char to come with me to the beach at Scorpion Bay . . .

I close my eyes as the ghost of Rhett’s lips brush against mine in my mind.

Be brave, he wrote.

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