Reid
Reid
Replacing the fuel pump in Jodi’s car is easy.
Focusing on what my hands are doing is another story.
Every time I bend under the hood, I feel her mouth again. Warm, soft, and eager.
I should’ve kissed her again when I walked her door at the inn. I should’ve pushed her hair back and taken my time tasting her. But I held back. Because I want this to be right. Because I want to give her more than a stolen moment in the snow.
Because she deserves more.
Last night a plan formed crystal clear in my head. We’ll exchange numbers and I’ll head to Crescent Ridge early. I won’t crash her family’s Christmas, but I’ll be damned if I’m not in town the day after, already suffering withdrawal from my girl.
I won’t rush her, but I’m not allowing even a whisper of space between us that she could misinterpret as disinterest. I’ll straddle the line between respect and obsession. Nicholas will laugh at me. Hell, the whole town might laugh but I don’t give a damn.
By the time I finish fixing her car, my hands are stained black with grease that takes forever to scrub off.
The pink skin beneath feels raw, but the ache in my chest is worse.
I’m too wound up. Too wired. Too distracted by the memory of her lips, the sound of her breath hitching when I touched her waist.
I want to see her.
When I finally knock on her door, I’m expecting her smile. The real one that glows from the inside. The one that made me feel like I’d been punched square in the ribs in the best possible way. She’s got three days to make it home but I’m hoping she’ll spend this last morning with me.
She opens the door and she smiles.
But it doesn’t reach her eyes. Ice slides down my spine.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Your car’s fixed.”
“Oh.” Her fingers tighten on the doorframe. “Thank you. Really.”
She’s polite. Too polite. Like she’s talking to a stranger instead of the man she was pressed up against twelve hours ago.
I take a slow breath.
“Jodi—”
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she blurts out. “First thing. I need to get home.”
A beat passes. Then two.
“I’ll never see you again,” she whispers.
The words gut me.
“Why?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “Because long distance is too hard?”
“It never works out.” Her eyes flick away. “People go their separate ways. They lose touch. Feelings fade. It doesn’t make sense to start anything new.”
My jaw clenches.
So that’s what this is.
Fear.
The doubt has settled so deep she’s trying to cut us apart before we even begin.
“You really believe that?” I ask quietly.
She flinches. Not dramatically, just a tiny tightening of her shoulders.
“I’m being realistic.”
“No.” My voice is low, steady. “You’re running.”
Her breath shudders. She doesn’t deny it.
I step forward, but I don’t touch her. If I do, if I put my hands on her waist or tilt her chin up, I’ll kiss her again, and she’ll melt, and we’ll be right back where we started.
She needs to choose me without the heat of us fogging her thoughts.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does with blue eyes that shimmer with fear, longing, and regret all tangled together.
“I don’t do flings, Jodi.”
The words land heavy between us.
Her lips tremble.
I should leave. I should let her go. Give her space to think.
But I don’t move.
Holding her gaze, letting her see all the things I’m not saying.
I want you. I’m serious about you. Don’t throw this away because you’re scared.
A moment later, she steps back and closes the door softly. The hallway feels colder than the snow outside. I’ve taken rejection before. I know how to swallow it and keep moving. What I don’t know how to do is pretend this didn’t matter.
I let myself believe, just for a second, that this could be different. That maybe I wouldn’t have to keep drifting to find my purpose. My sense of belonging. Standing here in the cold hallway, I realize that wanting her isn’t the dangerous part. Letting myself hope she might want me back is.