Page 39 of The Fangirl and the Playboy

She sounds nervous. And maybe even a little jealous. Why does that make my chest swell like some kind of caveman?

“No, Willow,” I say with every ounce of meaning I can muster. “They were meaningless flings, my own lame attempts to get over you once I realized you’d moved on, and I couldn’t have the only person I’ve ever truly wanted.”

She inhales sharply, a soft gasp that has her pressing the heel of her palm against her chest. I watch her come to grips with both our choices and all the time we’ve wasted by letting misunderstandings grow and fester.

“And what about now?” I ask after a few beats of silence.

“What do you mean?” she asks, tilting her head to study me.

“Now that you know the truth, is there any part of you that wants to try again?”

I’m going for it. No more fear, no more excuses. I want a clear, direct answer that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

“I don’t know, Gavin,” she says, and the wind beneath my sails disappears. “We’re still facing all the same obstacles. You live in L.A. I live here. You have your career that’ll take you all over the world, and I have no desire to leave this town and my shop.”

“So, you still just want to be friends, then?” I ask, unable to mask the disappointment in my voice.

“I think that’s probably for the best,” she says, her voice as filled with just as much regret.

I don’t like this. At all.

But somewhere deep down inside, I know she’s right. I’m not some lovestruck teenager anymore, convinced that we can make it work with nothing but sheer determination. We live in different states. I could never ask her to leave her home, and if I want to keep acting, I can’t hide out in the middle of nowhere, Oregon. I need to be in Los Angeles or New York. I could and would travel for work, sure, but where would that leave Willow? At home, alone for weeks or even months at a time? Nurturing our relationship with text messages and video calls?

I don’t want that for her.

I don’t want it for either of us.

We finish our tea in stilted silence, then Willow stands, taking our empty mugs behind the counter. The porcelain clinks against the metal sink, echoing around me like a death knell. I watch as she grabs a box of tea bags from a shelf, then walks back around the long counter and toward the exit.

Taking the hint that it’s time to go, I stand, then quicken my pace to grab the door for her as she swings it open. She stumbles back a step in surprise, and her back brushes against my chest. The box of teabags slips through her fingers, hitting the floor with a thud as she spins around to face me with a gasp.

I don’t think she realizes what she’s doing as her fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt. My abdominal muscles tighten as her knuckles brush against them through the thin cotton, and I exhale harshly.

And she’s staring at my mouth.

There’s no way in hell to stop myself as I dip my head, bringing our faces closer to each other. Willow’s eyes fall closed, and she pushes up onto her toes, offering me those soft lips.

I must be dreaming. Trapped in some delusion from which I never want to escape.

Closing the remaining distance before she comes to her senses, I brush my lips over hers in a soft caress. My mind goes haywire at the light touch, and a groan rumbles up my throat as I cinch my arms around her.

Spinning her out of the path of the closing door, I push her up against the wall beside it, hiding us from view of the parking lot and street outside. Her fingers tug at my shirt as her lips part, inviting me inside for a long-overdue taste.

The second our tongues touch, I’m transported back in time. She tastes just the same as she did back then, like heaven and hell mixed together in a blazing inferno that shoots lust through every pore in my skin.

If there’s a gold standard for kissing, Willow is it. She always has been for me, and every kiss I’ve participated in since her has failed to rise to the challenge. No other lips have been able to compare. No other mouth has been as sweet.

I shuffle forward, leaning my weight against her so I can feel all of her against me. She’s just as soft as I remember.

My hands find her hair, and it’s just as silky and smooth as I recall.

Her grip untangles from my shirt, but before I can panic over whether or not she’s gearing up to push me away, her fingers skim up beneath the cotton to touch the bare skin over my abs.

This is new.

We kept things pretty much PG-13 when we were younger, so I’ve never felt the warm stroke of her fingers beneath my clothes. My dick takes notice, swelling rapidly as her hands slide upward, smoothing over my chest.

Shit, I could come just from the feel of her hands on me.

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