8. Avery
CHAPTER EIGHT
Avery
Somehow, Lyla conned all of us into playing a board game after dinner.
She’s currently looking in the closet in the hallway for the perfect game to finish off the night, while we all eat the cupcakes Lyla and I made this afternoon.
I sneak out to the garage to grab a seltzer water from the fridge out there where they keep most of their drinks.
“Shit,” I yelp, slamming into something hard. It’s almost pitch black out here, so I can’t see who I ran into. I don’t need my eyes to sense who it is, though.
Owen’s hands grip my shoulders, keeping me from falling backwards into the door that slammed shut behind me.
Tilting my head up, I can only see the faintest outline of his chiseled face. “Sorry,” I breathe out, finding it difficult to come up with any other words with him this close to me.
“Not your fault,” he says.
I realize for the first time that my hands are gripping his T-shirt. I can feel his abs tensing against my fists with each breath he takes.
I know I should step away, but my feet are glued in place. Knowing this can’t happen and wanting this moment to last for a few heartbeats longer are two realities very much coexisting in my mind.
“I need to kiss you one more time,” he says on a heavy exhale. It’s barely above a whisper. Even with our bodies pressed this closely together, I’m still surprised I heard him.
Maybe it’s the fact that we can’t really see each other right now that makes this moment feel distant from the rest of the real world. Maybe it’s something else entirely. No matter the reason, I find myself saying, “Do it.”
“Angel.”
My knees nearly buckle from the softness with which he says it.
“Owen,” I say with matching emotion.
His hands move from my shoulders to the sides of his face, and then his lips brush against mine. The contact is barely there at first. It’s a tease of what was and what could be… if only.
I can’t think about that right now, though. This moment, here in the dark, is ours. Nothing else matters right now.
When his lips press against mine again, there’s a hint of desperation seeping through and a whole lot of passion. It’s everything I remember and so much more.
I’ve thought about all those kisses we shared so many times over the years, more times than would probably be considered healthy. But those kisses archived in my memory don’t hold a candle to the real Owen Kingston who’s currently kissing me within an inch of my sanity.
Eventually, he pulls back a few inches, so we can both catch our breath.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
I know what you mean.
I want to scream it, but it seems wrong to say anything above a whisper. Anything above that level might shatter the thin glass holding this moment in place.
He rests his forehead against mine.
“That has to be it,” he says. His voice is pained, but I can tell he means every word.
I want to bang my fists against his chest, demanding we make this work. I stay frozen, though, because he’s right. There are so many reasons this can’t be.
I’m leaving in a few months. California. Internship.
He’s technically my boss right now.
Things would be so messy with the rest of his family—especially his brothers who I’m pretty sure I’m developing feelings for, too.
In a storm of my thoughts, I murmur, “I know.”
His lips press against my forehead. Then, he’s stepping around me and opening the door that leads back into the house.
I can’t keep from looking over my shoulder at him. The light from inside the house is a shock, but not as much as the utter devastation staring back at me in Owen’s face.
He takes a deep breath, then finally lets the door fall closed between us.
I stand there in the silent darkness unable to think of anything other than the feel of his lips against mine and how much I want it to happen again.
Without a drink in hand, I walk back inside. Maybe that’s the last little piece of Owen I will ever get. If it was, I’m grateful because that felt a lot more like the Owen I met years ago.
It wasn’t so much in the number of words we exchanged but the feeling behind them.
Don’t ask me how I can sense this, but it’s true regardless.
My eyes lock with his across the dining room table as I sit down. He gives me a small smile laced with finality, picking out the piece he wants to use for the game Lyla chose.
I guess that’s it, then.