Page 50 of Saddle and Scent
"I—what? No, I just... Why are you here?"
I hold up the bag like a peace offering, while trying not to be turned on by her flushed expression and how desperate I want to smash her lips with mine.
"Beckett's been stress-baking again. Figured you could use some breakfast that doesn't come from a box." I give her my best charming smile, the one that usually gets me out of trouble. "Plus, he knows you can't resist his cinnamon rolls. Man's got your number when it comes to baked goods."
She narrows her eyes, but I can see her weakening.
The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread is already wafting from the bag, and her stomach gives an audible growl.
"This better not be some kind of Alpha posturing thing," she warns, but she's already stepping back to let me in.
"Scout's honor," I say, following her into the disaster zone she calls a living room. "Just a friend bringing another friend some breakfast. If I start acting up, you have my permission to throw me out on my ass."
That would be rather fun to experience her try at least.
"Oh, I will," she assures me, leading the way to the kitchen. "Don't think I won't."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Junebug." The nickname slips out before I can stop it, and she shoots me a look over her shoulder.
"What did I say about calling me that?"
"That it's adorable and you secretly love it?" I guess, setting the bag on the counter.
"Try again."
"That it makes you think of summer nights and sneaking out to go swimming in the quarry?"
She pauses in reaching for coffee mugs, and I know I've hit a nerve.
We did spend a lot of nights at that quarry, the four of us, back when things were simpler.
Or at least when we were better at pretending they were.
"Coffee," she says instead of responding. "If you're staying, you're getting put to work."
"Yes, ma'am." I lean against the counter, watching as she moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
Even in the chaos of boxes and mismatched dishes, she makes it look like home.
She's reaching for the coffee filters when I move. I don't plan it, or think it through, just follow the invisible thread that's been pulling me toward her since I was eighteen years old.
My arms wrap around her from behind, and she goes completely still.
I can feel her heart racing where my chest presses against her back, can smell the soap and shampoo mixing with her natural scent. It's intoxicating and terrifying and exactly where I need to be.
"Wes?" Her voice is barely a whisper. "Are you okay?"
I rest my chin on her shoulder, careful to keep the embrace friendly rather than sexual despite every instinct screaming for more. She's so small in my arms, fitting perfectly like she was made to be held by me.
By us.
I don't answer right away, just breathe her in and let myself have this moment.
Ten years of distance, of pretending she was just another face from our past, and here she is.
Real and warm and smelling like she’s right where she belongs…in my arms.
"Just wanted to say welcome back, Junebug," I murmur against her shoulder.
