Chapter One #2
Because of course he is.
“You following me?” I ask without turning around.
“Yep.”
“Still don’t need your help.”
“Didn’t say you did.” He falls into step beside me anyway. “But it’s more fun over here.”
I cut him a look. “Fun?”
He shrugs. “You’re a little grumpy. I like grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy. I’m—”
“Overworked. Under-caffeinated. Wildly underappreciated.” He grins. “Like a rescue dog. Or a misunderstood villain.”
I glare at him, but he just keeps walking. Confident. Relaxed. Like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I resist the urge to rub the back of my neck, fingers twitching from the leftover adrenaline. My nerves are shot, my shirt’s stuck to my spine with sweat, and I swear if he grins at me like that one more time, I might combust for real.
We round the back of the tent row, slipping into the narrow space between booths, half shade, half storage overflow. Crates stacked. Cardboard boxes. Leftover signage from the spring book sale.
He stops and leans against the faded brick wall, arms folded. “So what’s your deal, coffee guy?”
“Wes.” I correct.
“Wes,” he repeats like he’s tasting it. “You always this charming?”
“Only when someone hijacks my booth and tries to play town hero.”
Jules chuckles. “I wasn’t trying to play anything. You just looked like you were about to go nuclear.”
“I was fine.”
“Right,” he says slowly. “Because fine people always look like they’re on the verge of spontaneous combustion.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix anything.”
“Nope,” he says. “But you didn’t stop me either.”
I bristle. “You don’t even know me.”
“Yet here we are,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “Hiding from a crowd behind a tent. Pretty sure that makes us best friends.”
“God, you’re annoying. And what’s worse… you know it.”
“Yet you’re still standing here.”
I hate that he’s right. Hate it more that I’m aware of how close he is, sunlight catching the curve of his jaw, the smudge of ash on his forearm, the vein in his neck twitching when he smiles like that.
Like the universe designed him to press every button I’ve spent years carefully duct-taping shut.
He’s the kind of guy who walks into a room and takes up space without trying, loud in all the ways I avoid. And yet, here I am. Letting him get under my skin like it’s his damn job.
He tilts his head. “Let me guess. You don’t do friends.”
“I don’t do distractions.”
His gaze dips, slow and obvious. “Then why do you keep looking at my mouth?”
I freeze. Just for a second. But it’s long enough to register the pull, something thick and dangerous sitting in the space between us. He’s baiting me, and worse, I’m tempted to take it.
That’s it. The final straw. My patience snaps clean in half.
I step forward, crowding him against the wall, my palm flat on his chest before I realize I’ve moved.
“You think this is funny?” I ask, voice low.
“No,” he says, not moving. Not even flinching. “I think it’s hot.”
I should walk away. Should grab the backup brew and go back to the booth like a responsible adult. But I don’t. Because his heart’s pounding under my hand, and he’s looking at me like he wants this. Like he wants me.
So I do what any exhausted, overwhelmed, very stupid man would do.
I grab him by the shirt.
And I kiss him.
Hard.
Jules lets out a startled breath, half grunt, half laugh, but his mouth meets mine without hesitation. His hands slide to my waist, one curling around the back of my shirt, the other gripping tight like he’s been waiting for this all damn day.
It’s messy. Frustrated. Electric.
And then—
I break the kiss, breath ragged, forehead pressed to his.
“Still think I’m grumpy?” I ask.
He huffs a laugh. “I think I’m gonna need a second opinion.”
His smile is still teasing, but his eyes aren’t.
They’re hungry. Intense. And they’re locked on mine, like he’s daring me to break first.
And when I don’t move, don’t blink, and don’t breathe, he does.
His hand slides to my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
And then he’s kissing me again, rough and sure and absolutely nothing like before.
His mouth is hot and reckless against mine, all heat and hunger and adrenaline-fueled impulse. There’s no easing into it this time. No slow burn. No pulling back.
Just fire.
I try to take control, anchoring him with a hand at the base of his neck, pushing him back into the wall, grinding my mouth against his like I can shut him up, make him feel everything I’m too damn stubborn to say.
But Jules doesn’t play passive.
He surges forward, flipping the balance in a blink. My back hits the opposite wall and he’s there, one thigh shoved between mine, palms braced on either side of my shoulders. His mouth moves with purpose, confident and filthy, like he’s already memorized how I like to be kissed.
Which is bullshit, because this is only the second one.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
It feels like déjà vu. Like we’ve been circling this exact moment for years and we’re both too tired to keep pretending it’s not going to happen.
I growl into his mouth, frustrated and turned on as hell, and claw at the hem of his shirt, dragging him closer. My body’s on fire, nerves lit up like sparklers, like every inch of him pressed against me is a match I can’t blow out.
He bites my bottom lip and I swear under my breath.
“Still think I’m just a distraction?” he murmurs, lips brushing mine. The worst part is that he’s right and I hate that he is.
“I think you’re a menace.”
“Then say it like you mean it.”
So I kiss him again, harder this time—just to shut him up. He catches my wrist when I grab for his shirt again, but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t stop anything. Just leans into the kiss like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
My hand slides under his shirt, dragging across warm skin, and he shivers against me, not even bothering to hide it. There’s a noise at the edge of the fair, someone calling out, a group laughing nearby, but I couldn’t care less.
All I care about is the way his hands finally grab my hips, pulling me into him like he’s done pretending this isn’t what he wants.
We’re not just kissing anymore.
We’re trying to devour each other.
My pulse is erratic, the air between us thick, heavy with need. I want to climb inside him. Get underneath whatever bullshit grin he hides behind. I want the real version. The one he doesn’t show anyone else.
But right now, I’ll settle for this.
For the rough press of his mouth. For the scrape of stubble. For the fact that, for once, I’m not the only one unraveling.
When we finally break apart, it’s not because I want to.
It’s because I need air.
We stand there, breathless, foreheads nearly touching, both of us refusing to back up.
His fingers flex at my waist. My chest heaves against his. Every inch of space between us is still charged, still crackling.
Still dangerous.
I swallow hard, my voice rough. “This was a mistake.”
Jules smiles like he knows I don’t mean it. “Maybe.”
He leans in, not for another kiss, but close enough that I feel it.
“But it’s the kind of mistake you’re gonna make again.”
His breath fans across my cheek, warm and tempting.
“I dare you,” Jules whispers.
And that’s it. That’s the final match to the fuse I’ve been trying and failing, not to light.
I shove him back into the wall, catching his mouth with mine again, harder this time. More desperate. His hands yank at my shirt, fingers curling in the hem like he’s ready to rip it clean off, and God help me, I let him.
“You always this reckless?” I mutter between kisses.
“Only when I’m turned on and out of time,” he growls.
The space is too tight, the air too hot, the sounds we’re making absolutely not suitable for a family-friendly fairground, but I don’t stop. I don’t even try.
His mouth slides along my jaw, down my neck. “I knew you were hiding something under that scowl,” he murmurs, voice rough as sin.
I reach between us, grip him through his jeans, and feel him jerk in my hand. “You really want to keep talking?”
He groans. “Fuck, no.”
It’s a blur of movement after that, my shirt hits the ground, his palms dragging across my chest like he’s trying to memorize every line. My hand slips under his tee, fingers splaying across tight abs, and he shudders.
“You like control,” he says, eyes half-lidded, mouth kiss-bitten. “But you don’t actually want it right now, do you?”
I should argue. Should snap something back to reassert whatever thin control I’ve got left, but then he drops to his knees like it’s a fucking prayer, hands still on my hips, forehead resting against my stomach.
“I—” I start, but the word’s lost when he mouths over my belt line.
“You’re not stopping me,” he says without looking up.
God help me. I don’t want to.
My hand tangles in his hair, not pulling, not pushing, just grounding myself as his teeth skim skin, teasing without going lower. Then he rises again, grabs my face with both hands, and kisses me like we’re on fire.
One of us is going to combust.
I fumble with his belt, fingers clumsy. He helps, hips rocking into mine, and then we’re grinding, hard and hungry and desperate as hell.
My fly’s open, his jeans shoved down, held up by his suspenders, everything hot and exposed between us.
Shirt off but clothes still technically on and nowhere near intact.
I feel everything. The heat of him. The sharp inhale when I bite his shoulder.
The moan that escapes when I roll my hips and hit just right.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters into my neck.
I’m already ruined.
His hand slips between us again, finds me, strokes slow and filthy. I buck into his palm, eyes squeezing shut, breath catching.
“Fuck—Jules—”
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let go, coffee guy. I’ve got you.”
And I do.
Right there, half-hidden behind a booth with the sun still high in the sky and people milling twenty feet away, I lose it, hips jerking forward, one hand gripping the edge of the table for balance, the other buried in his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.
His palm is rough and sure, tight around me, stroking with maddening precision as the heat coils low and tight, then shatters all at once.
I come with a strangled breath, sharp and involuntary, every nerve sparking like live wire.
Jules kisses me through it, slow and grounding. His mouth catching mine as I ride out the aftershocks, his free hand curling against my side like he knows I need something to keep me upright.
He murmurs something soft I don’t catch, and for a second, I let myself feel it. The relief. The euphoria. The dizzy kind of calm that only comes when your body forgets how to be tense.
But the second the rush fades, reality slams back into place like a freight train.
I step back.
His hands fall.
“Shit,” I breathe, swiping a hand across my mouth like I can erase what just happened.
He blinks at me, hair messy, lips swollen. “Wes—?”
“This was a mistake.”
The words fall out before I can stop them.
His brows lift, barely, but the reaction is instant, like I smacked him.
“I didn’t mean—” I cut myself off. I did mean it. I didn’t. I don’t know what the hell I mean.
He exhales through his nose, slow. “Right. Of course.”
I don’t wait for more. Behind me, I hear the rustle of Jules doing up his jeans, a soft curse under his breath. I grab my shirt, trying to scrub at the wrinkle in my thoughts as I walk away.
Because staying?
Staying feels like more danger than I’m ready for.
The fair feels louder than it did ten minutes ago. Brighter, hotter, more crowded, like the whole town is tuned to the exact frequency I can’t handle right now.
I shove the backup carafe into place, rinse out the ones we didn’t use, and try not to think about the fact that I just got off with a stranger behind a booth. At a family-friendly event. In the middle of the damn day.
My shirt clings damp to my back. My heart’s still going like I just ran a marathon. Or something worse.
I don’t look for him. Don’t glance down the row or check the shadows where we were just tangled up, panting and grabbing like we couldn’t get close enough. I just keep my head down and pack the last few things into the crate like it’ll make me forget how good his mouth felt.
It doesn’t work.
His laugh is still in my ears. That cocky little tilt of his grin is seared into my brain, and my hands are still tingling with leftover heat. I should’ve stopped it. Should’ve never let it get that far.
But I did.
Because the second he touched me, it stopped mattering where we were. Who might see. What happens next.
And that’s the part that fucks with me.
It wasn’t just a release. It wasn’t just the rush of getting caught. It was him—some firehouse golden boy with a wicked mouth and too much charm—looking at me like I was something he wanted. Like he meant it.
And I let him.
I slam the back of the van shut a little too hard, take a steadying breath, and scan the square like maybe he’ll still be here—leaning against a booth, smirking like none of it touched him.
But I don’t.
He’s gone.
And somehow, that’s worse.