Page 42 of P.S. I Miss You

“I’m taking off,” I sign.

He pauses his video game and sits the controller down, and I take a seat beside him on the bed.

Ruffling his hair, I give him a smile, a silent reassurance that everything’s going to be fine. And it will be if only because I’ll spend every last dime, every waking hour, my last damn breath if I have to … making sure of it.

“Goodbye,” Tucker signs. His eyes contradict the smile on his face.

I wish I could stay.

I wish I could take him back home.

Someday, buddy. Someday.

Heading out to my truck, I start the engine and back out, letting the gravel pop beneath my tires. It hits me when I’m halfway home, that I’ve got this swell in my chest, this light sensation in my middle.

Am I … am I excited? To go home?

I refuse to believe it.

And yet—I can’t deny it.

Last night, I had every intention of having my way with her. Figured we could both use a release after everything that had happened that night, but Tuck came downstairs and I ended up talking to him at the kitchen table while he ate like a kid who hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks.

By the time he went to bed and I got upstairs, she was already passed out in my bed.

I crawled in beside her.

I don’t remember the rest.

I remember waking up to pancakes, waking up and looking at her prancing around my kitchen like we were some makeshift, happy little family.

For the first time in years, as I stood there watching her, I let myself feel a little bit of something … and it wasn’t so bad, but then I thought, “Holy hell, I must be out of my goddamn mind.”

Veering onto my exit, I calculate another fifty minutes until I get home.

Until I get to see her.

I’M ELBOWS DEEP IN dirty dishwater, my phone blasting Journey’s greatest hits, when I feel a set of hands skimming the sides of my hips. My heart plummets and a cool breath slicks my lungs.

Turning, I find Sutter.

And it’s great timing, actually, because I was just thinking about him, silently comparing the way I feel about him to the way I’ve always felt about Nick.

Nick gives me butterflies and giddiness. Nick feels like home, warmth, and good times.

But Sutter … Sutter makes me feel like a woman, fueling a physical desire so deep inside me it scares me. Sometimes, if I think about him for too long, I have to stop and find my breath.

“You scared me,” I state the obvious because I have no idea what to say right now, and then I turn down the volume on my music. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Only hours ago, I was in head-to-toe loaned Prada and Cartier for Gram’s ceremony and now I’m in sweats, a loose ponytail, and I smell like caked-on grease and Dawn dish soap as I stand before a strapping Adonis who’s looking like he’s two seconds from making me his next meal.

“What is th—” I try to ask a question, but he silences it with a kiss, which I suppose is an answer of sorts.

His mouth is soft and his hand cups my face as his tongue slides between my lips. I’m pinned against the counter, a sinkful of dirty dishes behind me, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, with Sutter Alcott’s perfect body, brave soul, and complicated heart pressed up against me.

But Maritza’s words echo in my head, the way they have been all day, growing louder and louder, impossible to ignore.

I slip my soapy hands around the back of his neck, relishing in his kiss, his masculine scent, his heat mixing with mine, and then I gently push him away.

“I need to ask you something,” I say.

His green-gold eyes hold mine.

“You don’t like me, right?” I ask. I know in a court of law, a question like that would be worthy of an objection, but it’s a lot easier than straight up asking, “Do you like me?”

Sutter doesn’t answer, but I need a firm yes or no from him. If he says no, if he elaborates about how he always “screws shit up” or that he “doesn’t like me like that,” then I’ll know with absolute certainty that Maritza was spot on about me wanting Sutter.

And only wanting him because I can’t have him.

Impatience eats at me. “We’re just having fun, right? This doesn’t mean anything to you?”

Again, it’s a lot easier than asking, “Are we having fun? Does this mean something to you?”

“Where’s this coming from?” he asks, his honey stare searching mine.

My fingertips begin to prune and wrinkle and steal what’s left of the sexiness out of this moment. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. With everything. I don’t want either of us getting hurt.”

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