40. Chapter 40
forty
Skye
It feels like fire ants are crawling under my skin as I sit in my car, waiting for Boston.
It’s barely noon, but I’ve been here twenty minutes already, too restless to stay home, too anxious to do anything productive. I keep checking the clock. Checking the parking lot. Checking the clock again.
I have no idea how he’s going to react.
He might be thrilled.
Or he might be furious that I went behind his back.
Guess I’m about to find out.
His black Toyota turns into the lot a few minutes before our agreed-upon time. My stomach promptly attempts a gymnastics routine.
I hate that.
I hate that seeing his car affects me. I hate that it doesn’t seem to be getting better.
I climb out and wait beside my door as Boston pulls into the space next to mine.
The second he steps out, our eyes meet. And something inside me settles. Just a little.
“Hey, Stormy,” he says, gray eyes bright in the summer sun.
“Hey.” Even I hear the wobble in my voice—partially from nerves and excitement, but also from seeing him. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Boston glances around the mostly empty parking lot, his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says. “Not that I mind meeting in abandoned shopping center parking lots, but what’s with all the secrecy?”
I wince. Right.
The secrecy.
“Yeah, so, about that…”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Uh-oh. Should I be worried?”
“No,” I say too quickly, then pause and take a steadying breath. “Probably not.”
His laugh is immediate. Warm. And extremely unhelpful to my concentration.
I point toward his car before I can get distracted. “This isn’t actually our final destination.”
His eyebrows rise.
“I kind of did something,” I add, unable to stop myself from grinning widely.
I texted him yesterday, after movie night with my parents. After hatching yet another plan that I really should have thought of days ago. But better late than never.
“What kind of something?” he asks, clearly curious now.
“I’ll explain when we get there.”
He studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Lead the way, mysterious woman.”
“I thought we’d take your car.”
Boston’s gaze flicks toward mine, brow dipping. “And leave yours here?”
I nod.
“So nobody we know sees us together?” he adds.
A pang of guilt hits me square in the chest. “Yeah.”
His jaw ticks once. Then he nods. “Okay.”
Without another word, I climb into his passenger seat. “Come on, Boss!”
He joins me a second later and starts the engine. “You sure you want to leave your fancy car here? Doesn’t seem like the safest area.”
“It’ll be fine. I don’t think we’ll be gone that long.”
“Okay, if you say so.” He shifts into reverse. “Alright, direct me.”
“Make a left onto the street and head south.”
We ease into traffic, and the silence between us is warm and weightless. “So,” I say, because apparently I’m incapable of leaving well enough alone, “did you survive Mrs. Davis’s girls’ night yesterday?”
I laugh quietly, picturing Boston rolling his eyes while a bunch of wine-drunk housewives take over the Davis living room.
But his voice comes out tight. “How… how do you know about girls’ night?”
“Oh, Mrs. Davis invited Archer’s mom when we were at the spa Wednesday. They both seemed pretty excited.”
“Archer’s mom?”
I look at him, trying to figure out why he suddenly sounds like he ate sand.
“Yeah. Stella Longfellow. I guess those girls’ nights are kind of legendary. Archer’s mom said she heard about them from someone else, and then she brought it up with Mrs. Davis. Do they play poker or something? They were talking about a buy-in.”
Silence stretches between us while Boston stares at the road ahead of him, unblinking, jaw and brow tense.
“Boss?”
A beat. Then he finally blinks. “Yeah. Sorry, I honestly… I don’t know if Archer’s mom was there. I’ve never met her before, so… and I worked late. Got back to the house, took a shower, and just went to bed.”
I frown at how forced the casualness in his voice sounds. “Okay, well, it’s not that important. I was just curious.”
“Tell me about your spa day,” he says without looking at me. “Like, what do you do there?”
I oblige and tell him all about my massage, the sauna and steam room, occasionally interrupting this riveting recital with directions—right at the light, straight, then left. Until we pull up to a sleek gated apartment complex.
“Hit zero, zero, nine, pound,” I tell him when we reach the keypad.
He punches it in, then watches as the gate swings open. “Where are we?”
“You’ll see. Make a right into the parking lot. Pull in there.”
Boston parks, cuts the engine, then meets me on the sidewalk.
I lead him down the path toward a modern apartment building edged in bright green foliage. He follows without protest, his gaze moving to take in his surroundings.
I stop in front of unit seven and fish a silver key from my pocket. I press it into his palm. “Can you unlock the door, please?”
Boston blinks at the key, then me. Then back at the key.
“Stormy,” he says slowly. “Where are we?”
“Just open it,” I say, heart thundering.
He studies me for another second like he’s trying to determine whether I’ve completely lost my mind.
Then he huffs. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters.
Heat floods my cheeks, but before I can respond Boston unlocks the door—admittedly hesitant, like he’s expecting to be met by a wailing alarm.
He holds the door open for me and I step inside first.
The apartment’s bright and airy, sunlight spilling through large windows onto carpeted floors. Neutral walls. New appliances. A small living room and even smaller kitchen area.
It’s nothing fancy. But it’s homey. Clean.
Safe.
Boston follows me inside, then stops. He looks around. Looks at me. Then around the apartment again. “Skye?” he says, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“It’s yours.” I let the words fall out of my mouth, tensing with anticipation.
At first, nothing comes. Boston just stands, frozen.
“What do you mean?”
“The apartment,” I say softly. “It’s yours. If you want it.”
His eyes dart between mine, confusion lining his brow. “I… I don’t understand.”
“I know this wasn’t really my place,” I start. “It’s just… I know you’ve been looking for a place for you and your siblings, and I know it’s hard without credit and stuff. I just… I wanted to help you so badly.” The words spill out in a rush. “So I talked to my mom. I’m so sorry.”
“You talked to your mom?”
“Yeah,” I say, sheepish. “I didn’t tell her much. Just that you’re trying to get custody of Bronx and Cassie, and that you’ve been… homeless. For years. Through no fault of your own.”
“But how… this… what…” he stammers.
“It’s my mom’s,” I interject. “The apartment complex. Technically, it belongs to her non-profit. It’s meant to provide transitional housing for people leaving… complicated situations.”
I tell him everything. About the conversation I had with my mom two nights ago, how heartbroken she was when she found out about Boston’s circumstances, and how eager she was to help him.
“Do you want to look around?” I offer with a smile.
He nods, and I lead him from room to room. The apartment might not be huge, but it provides enough room for Boston and his siblings.
He runs his hands over the sleek surfaces, breathing in the fresh scent like it’s life-sustaining.
I lead him down a small, narrow hallway. “This is one of two bedrooms,” I tell him as we step into a sun-drenched room.
“Is this… does the furniture come with it?” Boston asks, his eyes moving from the white bunkbed to the matching dresser and desk.
I nod. “It’s fully furnished.”
The emotion is etched into Boston’s face, but he doesn’t speak. Just takes it all in, like he’s afraid it could vanish.
Our next stop is the bathroom. “This could be Bronx and Cassie’s.” I smile, pointing toward the tub. “It even has a bathtub.”
Then I take him back through the apartment to the master bedroom. “And this would be your room,” I say, motioning toward the bed. “There’s a separate bathroom for you. No tub, but a nice, big shower.” I smile. “I remembered.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, but before the smile can fully form, he drifts away from me to explore the apartment on his own, opening closets, switching on lights, taking it in.
I follow a few steps behind, giving him space, trying not to wring my hands.
“So, what do you think?” I ask. “I know it’s not much—”
“Skye.” His voice cracks. “It’s perfect.”
Relief floods me like a tide. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I—” He swallows hard. “What do I have to do?”
My heart constricts at his tone. It’s not joyful or relieved. It’s cautious. Expectant. Uneasy. And I understand. Even now, standing in the middle of an apartment with enough space for him and his siblings, Boston’s first instinct isn’t to celebrate.
It’s to brace for the next wall he’s about to hit.
“Uh, well, there’s no credit check,” I say, smiling.
“You obviously have to pay rent. I don’t know exactly how much it is, my mom will have to tell you.
You have to sit down and talk with her still, sign the lease and all of that.
It’s technically only meant to be temporary, but she said the apartment is yours as long as you need it.
The rent gets reported to the credit agencies, so you’ll actually able to build credit.
And then, maybe in a year or two, you’ll be able to find something else for you and Cass and Bronx, if you want. ”
“Skye—” he breathes but breaks off.
“There’s more,” I add. “I know you said that you spoke to a lawyer a few months ago about, like, doing the custody stuff, and how you have to pay all these legal fees?”
He nods.
“My mom has an attorney who helps her a lot with clients who need restraining orders and stuff. Her name’s Sasha. And she said she’ll help you pro bono.”
Boston just stands there, his gaze moving between me and our surroundings like his brain can’t decide which thing is less believable.
The apartment.
Or me.
“You really did all this?” He finally asks, twin creases between his brows.
I shrug awkwardly. “My mom did most of it.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he decides, his voice low. Rough. “You did.”
He takes a step toward me. Then another. Slow. Like he’s approaching an animal that’s easily spooked.
I swallow, eyes wide and glued to him while my breath turns shallow. Heat unfurls somewhere deep inside me. He stops in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
Close enough that I can see the tiny scar on his jaw—the one he got when he fell climbing a tree when he was six. Close enough that I can make out the lightest ring of blue around his pupils before they bleed into a steely gray.
Close enough that I should step back. Except my body won’t move.
“Boss,” I whisper.
The nickname tastes different now. Richer. More dangerous.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Yeah?” The word is only breath.
My pulse stutters, roaring in my ears.
His hand lifts slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. But I can’t.
I won’t.
His knuckles brush my cheek. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts.
He cups my jaw. His palm is rough with use, but his fingers are soft.
The room goes still save for our shallow breathing and the thrumming of my heart.
There's just the heat of his body. And the impossible awareness of him.
A shaky breath leaves him. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his brow creased, eyes flitting between mine.
But the words don’t come. Instead, my fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
Boston’s eyes close, like he’s trying to hold on to the last scraps of control.
For one suspended second, it feels like we’re both standing on the edge of something neither of us should touch. The air between us crackles, thick and hot.
Then something gives.
I don’t know who moves first.
Boston?
Me?
Both of us?
All I know is one second there’s space between us and the next his mouth is on mine.
The first kiss is almost unbearably soft.
Tentative.
Disbelieving.
Like neither of us trusts that this is actually happening.
My breath catches.
His hand glides to the back of my neck, fingers curling in my hair at the nape.
And then I kiss him back. Really kiss him.
A low sound tears from his throat—all desperation and need. It shoots straight through me. Heat blooms beneath my skin, spreading everywhere all at once.
His mouth parts against mine and every coherent thought abandons ship. There’s only him. Only Boston.
I rise onto my toes, desperate to get closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Like somehow I can crawl beneath his skin and stay there.
His free arm wraps around my waist, hauling me against him.
The contact steals the breath from my lungs, every hard line of him pressed against every soft curve of me.
The kiss deepens naturally after that. Our tongues exploring. Hungry. Urgent.
Months—years, maybe—of stolen glances and unfinished conversations and feelings neither of us should have finally breaking the surface.
My hands slide up his chest and around his shoulders, his body responding in ways that make my skin hum.
Boston kisses me like he’s starving.
Like he’s trying to memorize me.
Like he’s spent years wanting this and still can’t quite believe it’s real.
And maybe that’s why I can’t stop.
Because for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t have to wonder if this thing between us exists.
I can feel it.
His hand cradles the back of my head, and everything between us deepens.
A low groan vibrates through his chest. The sound seems to jolt something loose in both of us.
Reality.
We break apart on the same breath—not far, but enough—his forehead still pressed to mine.
We don’t speak. We don’t move. Just breathe. Too hard. Trying to make sense of what we just did.
I lift my fingers to my lips without thinking. They’re warm. Tingly. Swollen.
Boston’s gaze follows the movement, and the look in his eyes steals the air from my lungs all over again. For a moment, I think he might kiss me again.
A part of me desperately wants him to, but another part knows better.
I glance toward the apartment door. “We should probably get you over to my mom's office.” My voice sounds strange. Breathless. “You need to sign the lease and other paperwork before you head into AJ’s.”
“Right.” Boston swallows. “The paperwork.”