Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
I wrench her door open.
“Summer—” My voice cracks. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly, her knuckles are white. Her eyes are wide, and her breaths are coming too fast.
“I’m—” She blinks, and finally turns her head to look at me. “I’m okay. I think I’m okay.”
I’m not convinced.
My hands shake as I reach across her and kill the engine. The silence is deafening—just her hitched breaths and my heart pounding in my ears.
“Can you move?” I run a hand up her arm. “Does anything hurt?”
She shakes her head, then, “No. Nothing hurts. I just…” Her voice wobbles. “What happened?”
“You blew a tire.” I swallow hard. I should’ve swapped her tires to winter ones weeks ago.
I cup her face, tilting it toward me, checking for any sign of injury. A cut. A bruise. Anything. “Look at me. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Her eyes finally focus on mine. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” I force myself to breathe. “Okay. Let’s get you out of here.”
I reach for her seatbelt, but she’s still gripping the wheel.
“Summer.” I cover her hand with mine. “You can let go. I’ve got you.”
Slowly, her fingers uncurl. She holds both hands out in front of her and wiggles them, like she’s taking inventory. I unbuckle her seatbelt and help her turn in the seat. Her legs tremble when her feet hit the ground.
“Easy.” I keep a hand on her waist. “I’ve got you.”
She takes one step, then another. “I think I need to sit down,” she says, then her knees buckle.
I catch her and pull her into my chest. She fists my shirt, and her whole body shakes.
“It’s okay,” I mumble into her hair. “You’re okay.”
Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll believe it, too.
“I couldn’t stop it.” Her words muffled against me. “I tried to… but the wheel—”
“I know.” My throat tightens. “You did good.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, and that’s when I see the tears tracking down her cheeks, catching in the light from my truck. I wipe them away with my thumb.
“I was so scared,” she whispers.
“I know.” My own hands are shaking. I can’t stop them. “When I saw you swerve… Christ, Summer, I thought—”
I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t say the words.
I thought I was going to lose you.
She’s here. She’s safe. She’s in my arms.
“Come on,” I say, rough. “Let’s get you warm.”
I bend and scoop her up, one arm under her knees, one behind her back. She makes a small squeak of protest, but I’m already moving.
“Miles, I can walk—”
“I know. Just…” My hold tightens. “Just let me.”
She doesn’t argue again, she loops her arms around my neck and tucks her face against my shoulder.
My truck is only twenty feet back, hazards still flashing. When I reach the passenger door, I shift her weight to open it, then lower her carefully onto the seat.
I jog back to her truck and grab her purse and phone. Her guitar’s already in my trunk from the bar. I toss her things in the back and hop into the driver’s seat.
She stares straight ahead, her hands resting in her lap, only a slight tremble left. I reach over and take one of them.
“You’re okay,” I repeat. Each time I say it, my heart rate settles a little more.
She turns to look at me, her eyes still glassy. “Are you okay?” Her lips curve just a hint, and it undoes me. Her tiny smile could fix just about anything, I swear.
“I can’t do this anymore,” comes out before I can stop it. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you. I can’t keep pushing you away when all I want is to pull you closer. I’m so fucking tired of being scared.”
She blinks, but doesn’t say anything, so I keep going, “I know.” I shake my head. “I know I don’t have the right—I know I fucked it all up.”
I glance at our hands, then back at her.
“I’ve replayed that night over and over. Everything I should’ve done differently. Everything I should’ve said instead. I knew it was wrong the second the words left my mouth. And every day since—every day we’ve been… not us—it’s only gotten clearer.”
I cup her jaw, and my eyes flick between hers.
“I should’ve kissed you. I should’ve tasted whiskey off your tongue.
I should’ve told you I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since the moment your lips left mine on December 11th.
That I can’t decide whether I crave your smile or your laugh more. That you completely undo me, honey.
“I’d rather have months with you than a lifetime of living with the regret of not knowing.”
“Me, too.” Her voice is barely there.
“I want you.” The word comes out raw. “For however long we have. However it ends.” I blow out a breath. “That’s what I should’ve said that night.”
She stares at me for a long moment. I can see it all moving across her face—hope, fear, uncertainty.
Then she says, “You have me.”
Something in my chest that’s been braced and held tight for weeks finally—finally—lets go.
“You have me,” she says again, stronger this time. “You’ve had me since that first night. You’ve always had me, Miles.”
I don’t remember leaning in. Don’t remember threading my fingers into her hair or tilting her face up.
All I know is, between one moment and the next, my mouth is on hers.
She gasps, and I swallow the sound, pulling her closer. Her hands fist in my shirt again, but this time, it’s not fear.
This time, it’s need. It’s relief. It’s yes.
Our kiss is messy. Desperate. More than a dozen days of wanting and pushing away and still wanting all poured into one single kiss.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
She rests her forehead against mine and whispers, “I want to say ‘take me home,’ but I think we probably have to report this, right?”
I glance at her Bronco. The back end’s scraped along the guardrail, and the rear tire completely shredded. “Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
Two hours later, her Bronco is on a tow truck, and the cops have their report. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.
When we pull onto the highway, her hand is clasped in mine.
Neither of us lets go the whole way home.