13. Reid #2
My hand curled automatically around his shoulder. And it wasn’t for Mrs. Evans or the stupid newsletter or the festival or the town—it was for him. For that satisfied little gleam in his eyes when I touched him, like he already knew how easy I’d fall if I let myself.
Ari leaned in just enough to make it look good for the picture—his arm draped around my waist, his fingers flirting with the edge of my belt loop like it wasn’t a big deal. Just two guys being... photogenic. For the town newsletter. In broad daylight.
The camera shutter clicked.
Mrs. Evans gave us a satisfied “Perfect!” then turned to flag down someone near the bake sale booth, already on to her next task.
“Everything alright over here?”
It was Gemma, her voice bright and cheerful—oblivious to the fact that I was still catching my breath, half hard, and holding onto Ari like letting go wasn’t an option.
I cleared my throat and stepped back, letting my hand fall away. Ari stayed close enough that his shoulder brushed mine.
Gemma raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. She just held out a paper plate stacked high with fresh cinnamon buns, the frosting already melting in the heat. “Peace offering,” she said. “For surviving rogue furniture.”
Ari brightened. “You’re an angel.”
He took one, already pulling off a bite with his teeth. I hesitated, then reached for one.
Gemma laughed. “Second time’s the charm, huh? Thought you were gonna turn me down again.”
“Didn’t want to be rude,” I said gruffly, aware of Ari watching me sidelong as he licked cinnamon sugar off his thumb.
“Mm. Very noble of you.”
She wandered off, calling to Mrs. Evans about the food table.
I went back to taping up the corner of the banner, trying not to think too hard about the sugar on Ari’s mouth, or the fact that my hand still remembered the shape of his waist.
But Ari wasn’t done.
He inhaled his bun in about three bites, then tilted his head, gaze flicking down to the one I’d barely touched.
“You gonna eat that?”
I narrowed my eyes. “I just got it.”
He grinned and plucked it right out of my hand, bold as anything.
“You little?—”
He took a slow bite, exaggerated, lips parting just enough to make it obscene. “Mmm,” he said around it, eyes dancing. “So good.”
My jaw ticked. “You planning to finish that too?”
Ari looked down at what was left, just two fingers’ worth of bun, then up at me through his lashes.
“No,” he said softly. “You should have the rest.”
Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he held it up to my mouth.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
He wiggled the cinnamon bun slightly, like a dare. “Come on, Daddy. Be a good sport.”
My pulse roared.
I leaned in, slow, teeth closing around the bite he offered. His fingers brushed my lip.
He didn’t pull away.
Neither did I.
By the time I got back to the station, I’d sweated through my shirt and lost every ounce of good sense I’d walked out with.
Paperwork sat on the desk in front of me, half-completed, numbers smudged where I’d pressed my hand down too hard.
The inventory sheet for the equipment locker might as well’ve been written in another language.
No matter how many times I tried to read the same line, I saw Ari’s grin, not requisition orders.
It didn’t help that I could still feel him pressed against my side like a memory I hadn’t agreed to keep.
“You’re pacing,” Griff called from the other end of the room, leaning against the frame of the open door, boots crossed at the ankle like he’d been waiting for me to fall apart on schedule. “Like a damn retriever that lost its tennis ball.”
“I’m fine.”
Griff snorted. “Right. And I’m the mayor.”
He pushed off the door and wandered over, gaze dropping to the paperwork in front of me, then lifting again. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain banner-painting, cinnamon-bun-thieving artist, would it?”
Trust that someone had seen Ari stealing a bite of my cinnamon bun and came back with the news hot off the press.
I didn’t answer and didn’t have to.
Griff was one of the only people alive who could see right through me, and worse—he never used it against me. Just stood there, steady as ever, watching me unravel like it was his job to keep me stitched together.
“He’s not a kid anymore, Reid,” Griff said, voice low but not sharp. Just factual. “You know that.”
Didn’t stop my gut from twisting. “That’s not the point.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been staring at that paper for the last ten minutes like it insulted your honor.”
I raked my fingers through my hair, already regretting how many times I’d touched Ari today.
Not because I didn’t want it—God, I wanted —but because I knew better.
I’d always known better. Even when Ari was nineteen, before any of this started twisting into something complicated, I’d known where the lines were drawn.
And now those same lines felt like threads about to snap.
Griff watched me like he was waiting for the truth to come out whether I liked it or not.
“It’s not just want,” I said finally, quiet enough to barely hear myself. “It’s... more.”
Griff nodded, like he understood more than he let on. Maybe he did. “More’s what makes it dangerous.”
Ari was probably still painting. Still smirking. Still being him.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket before I could stop myself. Held it tight like it might shock some sense into me.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Maybe I should send a message? It would be an excuse to hear from him. A reason to stay connected.
Because the few minutes we got today? They weren’t enough.
I could still feel him—his laughter in my ears, his hand brushing mine, that look in his eyes like he knew how I really felt.
But I wanted him. God help me, I wanted .
The kind of want that curled sharp and deep, that made logic feel like a flimsy excuse to stay away from him.
I knew every reason why the boy and I were a bad idea. Why I should keep my distance.
I’d rehearsed them all in my head.
Still, I sat there like a fool, phone burning in my hand, heart wanting things my head had already shut down.
I gripped the phone harder, like that could crush the need right out of me.
But wanting the boy wasn’t the problem.
It was that I didn’t know how to stop.
I stared at the screen for another heartbeat. Then shoved the phone back deep in my pocket—like that would keep me from reaching for it again.