Chapter Five
LINES WE DON’T CROSS
Wes
I tell myself I’m here to be polite.
Support the town. Show face. Blend in for five minutes and leave before anyone notices.
That lie holds for all of thirty seconds.
Because the second I step onto the grass and scan the crowd, I see him.
Jules Morgan.
Firefighter. Golden retriever. Disruption in human form.
He’s got a hose in one hand, a smirk on his face, and he’s helping a group of kids try to knock over plastic cones with a stream of water. His T-shirt clings to his back, sleeves rolled, suspenders hanging low around his hips like he knows exactly how distracting they are.
He hasn’t seen me yet. I should turn around. Walk back to my shop. Pretend I was never here. Pretend I didn’t spend the last two days thinking about the way he looked at me after I kissed him.
I could leave. Slip away before he turns. But something keeps me rooted, like walking away now would feel less like self-preservation and more like giving up.
But my feet don’t move.
Instead, I watch him laugh at something one of the kids says, crouch down to adjust the nozzle, and offer a high five like they just saved the world.
I should go. I really should go.
Instead, I step closer.
“Hey, Sunshine.” His voice cuts through the noise the second I hit the edge of the tent.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me. Like he knew I’d show up eventually. Or like he’s been waiting for me to stop pretending I don’t care.
Cocky bastard.
“You came.”
“Didn’t plan to,” I deadpan.
He grins like he’s been waiting for me to say something exactly that dry. “That makes it even better.”
There’s no shade in his tone, no hint of the way things were left. Just that same relaxed energy like he’s been living in the moment, not replaying it on a loop.
Must be nice.
Some people know how to let things go. Me? I store them in boxes, tape the lids down, and shove them into the dark. And then wonder why nothing ever feels light.
I shove my hands into my pockets, nod toward the spray game. “Busy saving lives?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Training the next generation.”
The kid tugs on his arm and Jules excuses himself with a wink—yes, a wink—before stepping back into action. I tell myself to leave. Now would be the time.
But I don’t.
I linger.
Somewhere between the engine parked at the curb and the bake sale booth across the lawn, I drift. I nod at a few people. Accept a bottle of water I don’t want. Avoid anyone who might try to start a conversation.
And somehow end up near the back of the tent again, right as Jules finishes up.
He spots me instantly.
His eyes sweep me once, slow and deliberate. “So. You here to volunteer or just stalk me?”
“Neither. Just…being polite.”
His brows lift. “That why you’ve been staring for the last ten minutes?”
I roll my eyes and start to turn away, but his hand brushes my arm. Just a touch. Barely there. But it stops me cold.
“I’m glad you came,” he says. Quiet. Almost like it’s just for me.
I don’t answer.
Because if I say what I’m thinking, I’ll admit I came here hoping to see him. That I stood in front of the mirror twice this morning wondering if this shirt made me look like I wasn’t trying.
Instead, I nod toward the lemonade stand. “Think they spiked it?”
Jules grins again, wider this time. “We could always find out.”
I raise a brow. “Is that your way of asking me on a date? At a children’s booth?”
He smirks. “What, not your thing? I figured if there was ever a time for low stakes…”
We wander together, slowly. Not touching. Not talking about anything real. Just… being. But he drifts close once, close enough that our shoulders bump, his hand grazing mine when we both reach for the same cup.
I pull back like it burned. Like the briefest touch might unravel something I’ve spent years keeping tightly wound.
He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he grabs two and holds one out. “Here. Peace offering.”
“For what?”
His gaze finds mine. Steady. Warm. “For how hard you’re trying not to run.”
A beat. Then, quieter—
“And for whatever made you think you had to.”
My throat tightens.
I take the cup but don’t drink.
The crowd around us shifts. A breeze cuts through the tent, lifting the corners and rattling the edges. Somewhere behind us, a kid screams, and a bell rings. Someone wins a raffle.
The world keeps moving. The smell of sugar and fried dough hangs in the air, thick and sweet. Music drifts from somewhere down the block. But none of it lands, not really.
But I feel like I’m standing still.
Jules leans in slightly. Not close enough to start anything. Just enough that I could—if I wanted to—close the distance.
I don’t.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because I do want to. Every part of me is humming with it. With the memory of his mouth, the sound he made when I finally kissed him, the way his hand gripped my shirt like he didn’t want to let go.
But I’m not ready. My body might be, my memory definitely is. But my heart’s still hiding behind a dozen closed doors I’m not sure how to open.
Not yet.
He watches me like he knows all of that. Like he sees the tension holding me together and respects it without letting me off the hook.
“Don’t worry,” he says, stepping back, voice light again. “I’m not gonna corner you in front of the cotton candy machine.”
“That’s comforting.”
He laughs. “You say that like you wouldn’t like it.”
I don’t answer. Just let the silence sit.
He waits. Only a second. Then tosses his cup and heads back toward the fire engine. But halfway there, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder.
And I almost follow. Almost. My foot shifts. My heart lurches. My pulse says go. But my fear? It whispers stay.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
The bell above the door doesn’t ring.
Of course it doesn’t. I finally fixed the damn thing last week—after it spent three months chiming for every gust of wind—and now it chooses not to work?
Which means Jules manages to walk in completely unnoticed… until he clears his throat.
I glance up from the back counter, still elbow-deep in tomorrow’s prep, only to find him standing inside the shop like he never left.
Hair damp from a shower. Clean T-shirt. Same suspenders slung low. It’s like he knows what it does to me.
“Brought you a thank-you,” he says, holding up a Brew House mug with a grin that’s way too confident for someone uninvited. “For the donation.”
I stare at the mug. “Pretty sure that’s something I sell here.”
“Call it a bribe.” He steps closer. “Thought I’d sweeten the pot for next time you donate.” He sets it on the counter like it’s a peace offering, or maybe a test to see if I’ll send him packing.
It causes my pulse to stutter, because I know he’s teasing me. And his eyes, when they catch mine, hold a challenge under the shine.
The curve of his mouth is just shy of cocky. But under it, there’s something quieter. Something careful.
“What are you really doing here?” I ask.
He shrugs, slow and unapologetic. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“And you figured why not see if I’d be here.”
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
I exhale through my nose. “You want a cookie for that?”
His gaze drops, intentionally, obviously—to the tray of chocolate chip cookies cooling on the rack. “If you’re offering.”
His tone is light, but there’s heat behind it. A slow-burn kind of wanting that’s been building for days. Hell, who am I kidding—weeks. Since our encounter in the tent.
I glare at him. “They’re for tomorrow.”
“Mhm. Then I guess I’ll have to take something else.”
I don’t know who moves first.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. Maybe the space between us just decides it’s done being ignored.
And suddenly, he’s right in front of me.
So close, the smell of his soap is making me dizzy or maybe that’s just him.
The heat curling between us is like static, humming under my skin as he steps even closer and doesn’t stop. His breath brushes mine. One heartbeat away from too far gone, and still I don’t pull back.
His fingers brush my wrist. A test.
I don’t flinch and he moves closer.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter, but it’s already too late.
His hands are on my waist before the words are out. Mine in his hair. Our mouths crashing together like we’ve both been starving for it. It’s clumsy and greedy and nothing like it should be… and exactly what I need.
I’ve missed this—missed him—more than I ever let myself admit.
And I have.
God help me, I have.
It’s messy and desperate. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission, it just takes. He crowds me back against the prep table and lifts me onto the edge like he owns the place.
Like he owns me.
Like he doesn’t care that the front door’s still unlocked.
Or that I haven’t even turned off the open sign.
I shouldn’t want this. Not here. Not with him looking at me like I’m already his.
His mouth drags down my throat. “You taste like cinnamon.”
“Because I was baking,” I manage, breathless.
He hums like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard and I just told him I made it for him.
“Then keep baking,” he says, “and I’ll keep doing this.”
His hand slips under my shirt.
Fingers warm against my skin. Palming up my chest, teasing over a nipple until I jerk.
He grins into my neck. “Sensitive. Noted.”
I curse and pull him closer. My restraint’s a joke, shredded the second he moaned into my mouth. I’m not thinking. Just feeling. Just reaching for whatever this is before I remember all the reasons I shouldn’t.
He groans when our hips align. When he feels just how not unaffected I am. His hands slide to my thighs, spreading them farther open so he can fit between them better. Then grinds against me with a slow roll that sends heat tearing through my spine.
It’s too much but also not enough.
I drag his shirt up. He shrugs out of it like he’s done it a hundred times for me. I smooth my fingers over the lines of his chest, the ink on his ribs, the way his breath catches when I suck just under his jaw.