Page 11 of Barbed Wire Fences
Rhett nods once, then bends, lowering himself until we’re eye to eye. And then, slow, deliberate, almost reverent, he presses his mouth to mine.
It’s the softest kiss, so feather-light it steals the air right out of my lungs. For a second, I freeze, stunned. I hadn’t exactly spent my life imagining what it would be like to kiss Rhett. Why would I? He’s always been the infuriating boy-next-door who thrived on getting under my skin, the one who made hisdisdain for being stuck with me crystal clear. But this? This isn’t disdain.
The world shrinks to nothing but the brush of his lips over mine—warm, steady, devastating in its tenderness. It feels like standing outside on the first real summer night, when the air hums with heat, the fireflies blink, and there’s excitement humming through your veins at a summer of possibility that’s awaiting you.
And it’s not just his lips that are touching me now. His hand finds the back of my neck, fingers pressing gently, possessively, like he’s claiming this moment even as he softens it. He squeezes my neck a little harder, causing my pulse to race.
It’s not my first kiss. Not even close. But it’s the first one that feels like this. Like it’s cracking something open in me I didn’t even realize was locked shut. And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.
When Owen kisses me, it’s usually more aggressive, like he’s trying to prove something and assert his dominance. I open my mouth slightly, and he jams his tongue in hard. It’s as if he’s trying to remind me who’s in control in the relationship. Now that I needed that reminder.
Not that I’m saying Owen’s kisses are bad, they’re just… not whatever this is. Rhett’s lips are shaped differently, fuller, and somehow their touch feels like an entirely new language that I’m desperate to learn but know that I shouldn’t. Because kissing Rhett, even if this is supposed to be just practice, feels like something that will end in me getting hurt.
Eager to show him I’m no amateur in the kissing department, I slide my hands up to his neck, pulling him closer to my face as I press my lips more firmly against his. Then, with a boldnessfueled by the need to match his intensity, I push my tongue between his lips aggressively, and bite down on his lower lip.
“Whoa, what the hell?” he shouts, jumping away from me like I just shocked him with an electric prod
I shrug. “What? I thought that was how you kissed?”
His face says differently as he looks at me with the most bewildered and appalled expression and then dramatically lifts the back of his hand to his mouth and drags it across his lips as if to wipe off my touch.
“Um, okay, rude.”
He shakes his head. “Is that how that asshole Owen used to kiss you? You just ate my face, and I’m pretty sure my tongue is bleeding.”
My eyes narrow as I glare at him. “Don’t call Owen an asshole.”
He raises one brow. “Why do you care what I call him? I thought you guys broke up.”
“We did,” I lie again but much less convincing this time.
His eyes narrow in on me, reading right through my face as he chuckles darkly. “Lesson over, Jael. I’m not teaching you something your ex-boyfriend should have already shown you how to do properly. He made this mess; you can learn from him how to undo your shitty skills.”
He turns his back to me and starts walking back to his trailer.
“Rhett, please help me!” I shout out at his back, but he’s already halfway across his mom’s yard, completing ignoring me.
???
A sound behind me yanks me out of my trip down memory lane. The creak of my childhood bedroom doorway reminding me where I am.
My whole-body jolts, adrenaline surging as I shoot to my feet with a strangled scream, clutching the yearbook I was looking at to my chest like it’s some kind of shield. For a split second, I’m convinced it’s a stranger—a townie breaking into my mom’s trailer looking for money or drugs, waiting to pounce.
But no.
Not a townie with bad intentions.
Nope.
Rhett Miller which is even worse.
Because he’s always been lethal to my heart.
Chapter 5 – Rhett
My morning started out like every other Wednesday in Whitewood Creek, the small town where I was born, raised, and have spent all twenty-nine years of my life. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows your name and your business. Not much happens here, good or bad. It’s quiet, steady, and built on generations of families tied to agriculture and the crown jewel of the year: the North Carolina State Fair that we host.
I awoke, brewed a pot of strong coffee, and headed into my office in the town square, ready to tackle another day of running my own business and handling the city’s seemingly endless plumbing issues.
