Chapter 43
forty-three
. . .
RORY
I can still feel her in my hands. The way she clung to me in the Jeep like I was something solid in a world she wasn’t quite sure of. The way her voice cracked open for me, soft and sweet and a little bit brave. It wasn’t just sex. It never is with her.
It’s been a week, but I keep catching myself staring at the empty passenger seat like she might suddenly materialize, paint-stained hoodie and all, eating those spicy pickles she can’t get enough of.
We’ve spent every moment we can together since then. Afternoons sprawled in the sand, evenings side by side on the bench near the boardwalk, and mornings tangled up in my sheets.
And it still doesn’t feel like enough.
I stretch out on the couch with my phone, scrolling back through our messages—not because I’m checking for a reply, just because I like seeing her words. She always sounds like herself. Straightforward. Funny. A little stubborn.
It’s such a contrast from the rest of my life lately, all business and strategy and pressure. I’ve got a campaign shoot in a week and a meet right after. I should be dialed in, laser focused. But every time I close my eyes; it’s her I see.
Her smile. Her laugh. That soft, surprised little moan she made when I kissed her in the rain.
I’m in trouble.
And not the “missed your interval, hit the pool deck” kind of trouble. The real kind. The kind where you start thinking about things like home, and not just where you sleep, but who you want to come home to.
I’m not saying it out loud. Not yet.
But I think she knows.