Page 50 of Riptide

Foxx’s assesses me. “You don’t seem like the type to run from things.”

The comment lands harder than it should. And a fleeting thought has me considering telling him everything. Telling him about Jared. About the comp. About how the wave swallowed him and how I never saw him again. About the nightmares, and the guilt, and how I stood on the shore afterward, feeling like I’d lost part of myself in the water that day and never got it back.

But I don’t.

I’m not ready for him to see me shattered. Not yet.

“You’d be surprised,” I say weakly. “But I’m trying not to anymore. I meant it, about starting fresh.”

Something in his posture eases a little. And maybe he really does understand more than I expected him to. Maybe he feels something in my grief that I thought I saw in him earlier. Or maybe he sees more than I’ve said.

“Starting fresh is good,” he says simply.

We sit in the quiet, just the buzz of the fridge and the last clink of his bottle hitting the counter. And then, like it’s the most natural domestic thing in the world, he stands and grabs our plates.

“I’ll wash,” he says, already moving toward the sink.

I follow, because sitting feels too far away from him now.

We stand shoulder to shoulder in the dim kitchen light, hands brushing now and then as we move around each other. Soap clings to his skin in soft white bubbles before slipping away under warm water, and each time our fingers brush when he passes me something to dry, goosebumps explode up my arm.

And then I realize, somewhere between drying the last fork and watching him stack the dishes like a perfectionist, that I’m comfortable here. He makes things easy, in his quiet, slightly stoic, insanely hot kinda way.

When I look at him again, he has a small splatter of sauce at the side of his mouth. I reach up and wipe it away, dragging my thumb over the scruff of his beard, then moving my fingers to push along his jaw, cupping it. Those pools of dark brown and gold swirl with a look I recognize as lust from him. He wants me, and the feeling is mutual. I like that I’m beginning to collect pieces of him and how he is with me.

“Messy eater.” I press my teeth into my lower lip, letting my gaze flick between his mouth and his eyes.

He leans into my hand lightly, so I increase the pressure on his jaw, moving the tips of my fingers into his hairline and bringing his mouth to mine. Our lips brush gently at first. The tickle of his beard will never get old. My hand roams to the back of his head, gripping hair as I push my tongue inside his mouth, tasting, taking, wanting.

His lips part to let me in, his tongue caressing mine. Heat overtakes my body and mind as I tug at his hair slightly, moving him where I want him, and he moans into my mouth. God, the sounds he makes, so deep, throaty, and sexy as fuck.

I press in closer, letting my free hand slide under the hem of his shirt, fingertips skating over warm skin. His hips shift like instinct, and I know he’s already thinking about where this could go, how fast we could take it there, because I am too.

But after things we’ve talked about tonight, I slow things down, ease the pressure as I pull back, my forehead resting against his, both of us breathing hard.

“I should go,” I murmur, though my body clearly disagrees.

His hands stay on me, but he nods reluctantly. “Yeah, okay.”

Stepping back, I swipe my thumb across his lower lip once more. No sauce this time, just a reminder of my kissing him.

He catches my hand before I can fully pull away, his fingers curling loosely around mine. Not enough to stop me, just enough to silently say he’s not quite ready for this to be over. His gazeflicks down, then back up again, and when he looks at me, there’s something dormant there coming to life. Something that makes my heart thud in my chest.

“Are you really leaving?” he asks, and I have to swallow the word ‘no’ rising in my throat. I inhale slowly and nod, even though every part of me is second-guessing it.

“Yeah,” I say. “But only because if I don’t, I’m not sure I will.”

That earns the tiniest smile from him.

“And I want to come back,” I say, my own vulnerability sneaking out for a second. I don’t need labels right now, but I need him to know that, at least. “If you want that too.”

“I do,” he rushes to say, and it makes us both laugh. Is that butterflies? Swarming, fluttering, heat blooming across my body. I think it is.

I squeeze his fingers once before slipping free. The walk to the door is short, but I feel every step like I’m walking through quicksand. When I glance back over my shoulder, he’s still standing there, watching me, arms loose at his sides, mouth kiss-bitten and a little stunned.

“Night, Foxx.”

The smile he gives me sticks itself right smack on my chest. “Night, Finn.”

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