Chapter 45
Willow
The bell over the door jingles as Carson guides me into the small neighborhood ice cream shop, his hand warm on the small of my back.
It’s a gentle touch.
But it’s also a claiming one.
He opens the door for me, showing me with his actions that I’m important to him. Holding it a beat longer than necessary, waiting for me to walk through. Treating me in a way that makes me feel precious and delicate.
Like I’m his.
It’s dangerous how good it feels.
The inside of the shop reminds me of childhood—the smells of vanilla, sugar, waffle cones, and comfort waft in the air.
The girl behind the counter greets us with a too-bright smile, her eyes flitting to Carson with undisguised interest. I roll my eyes.
Of course she feels that way; he is attractive. But Carson only has eyes for me.
“You’re getting two scoops,” he says, leaving no room for arguing. “One for pleasure. One for emotional healing.”
I blink. “I don’t need healing.”
He grins. “Oh, sweet peaches, you always need ice cream healing.”
The nickname should be irritating. It should remind me I’m supposed to be holding him at arm’s length to protect myself. All of them. But somehow, when Carson calls me it, I enjoy it.
“Pick your poison,” he says, nodding toward the display case.
He doesn’t rush me. But he stands so close I can feel his body heat, his knuckles brushing mine as we lean over the glass. His presence is a balm. A slow, steady uncoiling of the tension inside me. And I hate how much I love it. How much I’m starting to crave it. To crave him.
We settle into a booth with our cones. Mine is sea salt caramel and mint chip, which shouldn’t work but does, and his ice cream is a rocky road.
“Okay, admit it,” he says around a bite of his cone. “Graham is an idiot for sending you away.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “Is that what you think happened?”
He shrugs, but it’s loaded. “I wouldn’t have sent you away. Especially not when you were finally letting me close. I would have lifted you onto that counter and had a different kind of dessert with you.”
My cheeks flush.
“And if you’d let me,” he adds, leaning in, voice low, “I’d remind you that you don’t need to chase comfort in ice cream when I could give it to you in other ways.”
My thighs clench beneath the table. I’m so screwed.
He leans back, acting as if he didn’t just leave me halfway melted into the leather booth, completely oblivious—or maybe fully aware—of the fire he just lit beneath my skin.
I lick a slow stripe of caramel off my cone, trying—failing—to focus on the creamy sweetness instead of the simmering ache in my belly. His gaze follows the movement of my tongue.
The attention he’s giving me is making it really hard to think. Hard to breathe.
“Thanks for this,” I murmur, surprised by the softness in my own voice. I don’t usually do soft. I definitely don’t do grateful, not lately, anyway. But this moment? It feels safe and warm. Something I forgot how much I needed.
“I needed…something,” I add, eyes dropping to the half-melted ice cream in my hand. “I just didn’t know what.”
He lifts one brow, cocky and pleased, the corners of his mouth twitching, attempting not to smirk. “That’s what I’m here for.”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. I meet his gaze again, heat swirling in my belly like smoke curling toward a spark.
“Yeah?” I ask, tone lightly teasing. “You’re here to buy me ice cream and help me lick my wounds over your pack mate kissing me and then basically telling me no?”
He leans forward across the small table, resting his elbows on the edge, getting comfortable. His eyes stay locked on mine as he drags his tongue slow and deliberate across his ice cream cone.
“I can lick something for you, peaches,” he murmurs. “But it wouldn’t be your wounds. And I definitely will not tell you no.”
My breath stutters. A ragged inhale that betrays every thought racing through my head. Fire streaks through my veins, his words gasoline to a match.
My nipples tighten beneath the fabric of my bra, a spike of heat pulsing low in my core—and if it weren’t for the scent blockers thick in the air, I know I’d be perfuming for him right now. Sweet and syrupy and begging.
He knows it, too. The way his lips curve just slightly. The way his gaze dips, reading my every reaction.
He leans back again, cool as ever, taking another slow bite of his ice cream while pretending he didn’t just set me on fire with a single line of filth delivered like a promise. And I’m about three licks of mint chip away from climbing over this damn table and letting him follow through on it.
The tension stretches between us, humming with the kind of electricity that makes skin flush and thoughts scatter. I take another bite, savoring the chill of the ice cream as if it can cool the heat simmering just under my skin. It doesn’t.
We finish our cones in silence—but it’s not a comfortable silence. It’s loaded. Weighted with everything we’ve done, everything we haven’t yet, and everything we’re pretending we’re not thinking about.
I glance up, catching his gaze again. His eyes are still on me, dark and unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitches when he sees I’ve noticed.
It’s not just attraction anymore. It’s knowing. The awareness that I want him and he wants me. That part’s simple. We’ve both already given in once.
But if we cross that line again—if I let myself fall back into his arms—it won’t be a one-night stand anymore. It hasn’t been since I invited him into my bed and he stripped off my clothes, while I offered him more than just my body, even if I pretended that’s all it was.
He cooked me breakfast the next morning. Kissed my temple. Teased and flirted with me. And maybe I’m ready to stop pretending. Maybe I’m ready to move on from what Landon did to me—from everything I thought we could be.
Maybe Carson is right here, right now, and exactly what I need.
As we finish our ice cream, Carson tosses our napkins onto the empty tray, rising from the booth with an easy stretch that makes his shirt ride up just enough to flash a strip of toned skin. I follow him out, the warm night air brushing against my flushed cheeks as the door swings shut behind us.
It’s quieter than I expected outside. The street’s mostly empty except for a few couples and the distant hum of traffic. I shift my purse higher on my shoulder, still feeling the echo of Carson’s words in my pulse.
“See?” he says, bumping my arm with his lightly. “Ice cream solves everything.”
I almost smile. Almost.
Then I feel it. That prickling awareness. The undeniable sensation of eyes on me. My steps slow. I turn my head, and my breath catches. Across the street, half-hidden in the shadows between two buildings, is Finn.
He’s leaning against the brick, arms crossed, appearing as if he has all the time in the world.
His dark eyes are locked on me, unapologetic.
Unblinking. I’m pretty sure he’s been standing there this whole time, watching me from the moment I stepped out of the shop.
Or maybe the whole time we were inside, too.
Carson shifts beside me, his easy charm giving way to stillness. He sees him too. Finn doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. But the look in his eyes speaks volumes.
He wants to check on me. Wants me to cross the street. Wants me to choose him. And somehow...I know Carson sees it too.
I glance at Carson, uncertain.
He arches a brow, then tilts his head slightly. “You want to go to him, don’t you?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know.”
But I do. Because Carson said he’d help me. He said if I wanted to see Finn, we’d do it his way. Safe. Controlled.
It’s my choice.
I take one step toward the crosswalk, pulse hammering. Carson doesn’t stop me. He follows. And across the street, Finn straightens—surprised. His gaze flicks to Carson beside me, then back to me, curiosity sparking in those shadowy depths.
Because I’m coming to him. With my bodyguard in tow. And he doesn’t know what the hell that means. But I do.
I’m the one holding the leash.
For now.