Chapter 15
Rainey
Iam absolutely fine. Totally normal. Completely unaffected by the fact that I kissed Troy Bennett. Twice. And rode down a mountain wrapped around him like some kind of … outdoor survival television episode cliché.
I stand in the middle of my bathroom, staring at my reflection like it might offer guidance. No, it simply stares back at me with flushed cheeks and eyes that look … different. They are suspiciously hopeful.
“Okay,” I say, pointing at myself. “We are not doing this.”
This meaning spiraling. This meaning overthinking. This means reading into every single thing that just happened like it’s a sign from the universe.
It’s not.
Probably.
I turn back to the mirror and tilt my head, assessing. Makeup. Do I wear more? Less? None at all so I look like a carefree, naturally glowing woman who definitely did not just spend ten minutes debating mascara like it holds my future?
I pick up the mascara. Put it down. Pick it up again.
“Light,” I decide. “We’re going light. Effortless. Casual.”
Which is exactly what women say when they are absolutely not being casual.
Clothes are worse. I’ve changed twice already, which is two times more than I’d like to admit. The first outfit felt like I was trying too hard. The second felt like I wasn’t trying at all.
Now I’m standing here holding a third option and questioning every life decision that led me to this moment.
“Tighter says confident. Looser says relaxed.”
“Tighter also says you’re thinking about him.”
I drop the shirt onto the bed.
“Okay. Relaxed it is.”
I pull on something that fits well enough without announcing itself and step back, giving myself one last look.
It’s not perfect or polished. But… me. That has to be enough. It has to be.
The drive up the ridge feels familiar. I know the turns now. The way the road curves where the trees thin out, where the light shifts through the branches. I’m not gripping the wheel like I’m preparing for impact. I’m thinking about him. Which is arguably more dangerous.
The kisses replay whether I invite them or not.
The first was careful, like he was giving me a chance to stop it.
The second was not careful or hesitant. It was a full-on kiss with a little tongue action — deep, penetrating and urgent.
I press my lips together, like that might stop the memory from resurfacing again. It doesn’t.
“Okay,” I say to myself adjusting my grip on the wheel. “We’re just having dinner.”
That’s it. Food and conversation. Normal human interaction that does not involve losing all sense of composure because a man knows how to drive a four-wheeler, cook breakfast and kiss amazingly well.
Totally normal.
I make the final turn onto his drive and slow the SUV, gravel crunching under the tires. And that’s when it hits me hard. I did not bring dessert. I sit there for a second, engine idling, staring straight ahead as the realization settles in like a personal betrayal.
“You had one job,” I whisper.
One simple task. Bring dessert. I consider turning around. Briefly. Very briefly. But the idea of backing out of his drive like some kind of emotionally unstable raccoon is worse than admitting I forgot.
I cut the engine and sit there another second, gripping the steering wheel.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “We’re owning it.”
I’ll try to appear confident about my forgetfulness and hopefully Troy is unbothered by it. Completely fine with the fact that I am showing up empty-handed to the first not-a-date dinner with the man I definitely kissed twice.
I step out of the SUV and smooth my hands over my jeans like that’s going to somehow reset my entire energy. It does not.
His place looks the same as it did earlier, but now it feels loaded and almost familiar. It's doesn't have the same effect as when I first arrived this morning. Things feel different. I feel different.
I take a breath and walk toward the door before I can overthink it again. Because if I stop now, I will absolutely talk myself into leaving. And I am not doing that. Not tonight.
I reach the porch and pause just long enough to arrange my hair and take a deep breath. Somehow, this makes me feel more prepared. I'm not sure what I'm worried about. Troy is not an axe murderer … I think. If he is, he must kiss his victims first.
I lift my hand and knock. It takes a moment, then the door opens.
Troy stands there with a kitchen towel folded over his broad shoulder — looking exactly like the hottest man you'd ever find in the woods.
“Well,” I say, because apparently humor is my coping mechanism now, “I have great news.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“And bad news?”
“I forgot dessert.”
I pause.
Then add, because I can’t help myself …
“But I did remember to show up.”