Page 40 of The Hearts We Fumble
Something I’m too afraid to name.
“Wyatt Vaughn.” Zane’s voice slices through the night, sharp and commanding, and I roll my eyes at his use of my full name.
He rounds the front of the car, his movements deliberate and controlled. But there’s a fire behind his gaze, burning hot as he stops in front of me and yanks open the passenger door.
I don’t move.
His eyes drop, skimming over the lace bodysuit hugging my curves, the black bra underneath barely concealed by the delicate fabric. It’s high-necked, but the sheer material leaves little to the imagination.
I see it—the quick inhale, the way his fingers twitch at his side, how his jaw tenses like he’s trying his hardest not to react.
Normally, I might feel self-conscious under his scrutiny. But tonight? I know exactly what I look like.
I feel hot. I feel damn good.
And judging by the way his throat bobs as he swallows, Zane agrees.
I stop just short of him, tilting my head, waiting for him to speak first.
His nostrils flare. “How much have you had to drink?”
I grin, stepping closer, the alcohol in my system making me bold. “Why?” My voice drops, teasing, my fingers ghosting along the fabric of his shirt. “Are you jealous?”
Something flashes in his eyes—something dark and unreadable. The kind of look that has my stomach flipping and my heart pounding harder than I’d like to admit.
This time, when he says my name, it’s softer. Less of an order. More of a plea.
Say it, I think.Admit it. Give me something.
I press my palm against his chest, feeling the steady, hard thump of his heart beneath my fingers. The heat of him seeps through the fabric of his shirt, and for a second, he doesn’t move.
Then he covers my hand with his, strong fingers curling around my wrist, his grip firm but careful.
“Quit trying to push my buttons, Wyatt.” His voice is strained. “Get in the car before I toss you in there myself.”
The warning in his tone sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
Instead, I exhale sharply, shaking my head as disappointment settles heavy in my chest.
Just when I think his walls are starting to come down, he shoves them right back up.
“Just once,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just once, I wish you’d be honest with yourself and say what you truly mean.”
I don’t know if he heard me. If he did, he didn’t react. He just waits, unmoving, until I finally climb into the seat and reach for my seat belt.
He slams the door shut.
Without a word, he starts the engine, but his grip on the steering wheel is tight enough that his knuckles turn white, tension radiating off him in waves.
I don’t need him to say anything.
Maybe this—his silence, the way his jaw flexes, and the way he refuses to look at me—is the answer.
Maybe it always has been.
Chapter Ten
Zane
