Chapter 4 #2
“Indeed.” He smiled, but it was tinged with something rueful. “So I quit. Started over.”
We sat in silence for a moment. This wasn't just polite small talk. Edward was being real with me, showing me the cracks beneath the polished surface.
“Do you regret it?” I asked.
“Every day.” He set his mug down, his gaze distant. “But regret's a funny thing. You can let it paralyze you, or you can let it teach you. I chose the latter.”
“And what did it teach you?”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. “That life's too short to hide from what you want. Too short to let fear make your decisions.” He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “What about you, Miles? What are you hiding from?”
The question caught me off guard. “I'm not hiding.”
“Aren't you?” His tone was gentle, not accusatory. “You came back to a small town to help your sister. Noble. But also safe. Easier than figuring out what you actually want.”
I wanted to argue, to defend myself. But he was right, and we both knew it.
“I don't know what I want,” I admitted quietly.
“That's fair. You're young. You've got time to figure it out.” He picked up his mug again, studying me over the rim. “But don't waste that time running away from yourself.”
I laughed despite myself. “That's quite the sales pitch for self-discovery.”
“I'm a terrible motivational speaker.” His smile was self-deprecating, warm. “But I'm good at recognizing when someone's stuck. And you, Miles? You're stuck.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Walsh.”
“Retired lawyer, not a doctor. But you're welcome.” He stood, moving to the window that overlooked a small balcony.
Fairy lights were strung across it, twinkling in the darkness.
“You know what helped me? When I finally stopped trying to be the person everyone else expected me to be. Stopped trying to fit into some neat little box.” He turned back to me.
“Started being honest. About what I wanted. Who I was.”
There was something in his voice, something vulnerable and raw, and I felt my chest tighten. “And who are you?”
“Still figuring that out.” He laughed softly. “But I'm closer than I was. And I'm not afraid anymore. Not of my own truth.”
The way he said it, the quiet conviction in his voice, made something in me ache. I'd spent so long being cynical, keeping walls up, pretending I didn't care. And here was this man, older and wiser and scarred by his own mistakes, telling me it was okay to want things. To be honest.
Edward turned back to the window, his profile sharp against the glow of the fairy lights.
“You know what's funny? I spent all those years in thinking I needed to be someone else. Someone harder. More successful. More...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“More everything. And now I'm here, in a small town, retired at fifty-four, and I'm happier than I've ever been.”
“Must be nice,” I said, the words coming out softer than I intended.
He glanced over his shoulder at me, and something flickered in his expression. Warmth. Understanding. Maybe something more. “You'll get there. Just stop being so damn hard on yourself.”
“Can't help it. It's part of my charm.”
“Is that what we're calling it?” He moved away from the window, crossing back to the couch, but this time he sat closer.
Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
“Your charm seems to involve a lot of scowling and muttering under your breath.”
“It's called personality.”
“It's called being a brat.”
I laughed, surprised by the easy teasing, and he grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “See? There it is. You should do that more often.”
“What, laugh at your bad jokes?”
“Laugh in general. You look good when you're not busy being miserable.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I'm not miserable.”
“You're something.” His gaze held mine, and I felt the air shift again, thicken. “I just can't figure out what yet.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I like a challenge.”
The way he said it, low and deliberate, sent a shiver down my spine. I should have deflected, made another joke, put distance between us. But I couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
“Edward—”
“Miles.” His voice was quieter now, rougher. “Tell me something true.”
“What?”
“Something you haven't told anyone else. Something honest.”
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering. “Why?”
“Because I want to know you. Not the version you show everyone else. The real you.”
God, that shouldn't have hit me the way it did. But sitting there, with his eyes on me, warm and intense and patient, I felt something crack open inside me.
“I'm scared,” I said finally, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “I'm scared I'm going to waste my life being too afraid to actually live it. That I'll wake up one day and realize I never took a single risk that mattered.”
Edward didn't speak for a moment. Then he reached over, his hand covering mine where it rested on the couch between us. His palm was warm, rough in places, solid.
“Then don't,” he said simply. “Take the risk.”
“It's not that easy.”
“It never is.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles, a slow, deliberate touch that made my breath catch. “But it's worth it.”
I looked down at our hands, then back up at him, and the distance between us felt impossibly small. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide, and I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast.
“You're trouble,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“So are you.”
“I should go.”
“You should.”
Neither of us moved.
The moment stretched, electric and dangerous, and I felt my pulse in my throat, my skin too tight, too hot. His hand was still on mine, his thumb still tracing lazy patterns that made it impossible to think straight.
“Miles.” My name on his lips sounded like a prayer. Like a warning.
My name in his mouth lit something reckless inside me, something that made my fingers tighten on the fabric of his shirt as I surged forward and crushed our mouths together.
His breath caught, the sound barely more than a hitch, but then he opened to me—mouth hot, tongue sliding against mine, unhurried but so goddamn certain I nearly whimpered.
It didn’t stay tentative for long. Every brush of his lips sent another shock through my system, each one stoking the need already coiled low in my belly.
My hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers sinking into silver-streaked hair that felt criminally soft under my touch.
His hands never stilled. One cupped my jaw, thumb stroking over the edge of my cheekbone, the other held the nape of my neck, guiding the angle of my mouth as if he already knew what would ruin me.
Every time our lips parted, he pulled me back in, hungry and patient at the same time, like he wanted to savor every single second.
Laughter escaped me, breathless and shaky, when our noses bumped. His mouth chased mine, greedy for another taste, and he grinned against my lips. “You always this enthusiastic, Miles?”
“Only when I’m desperate,” I muttered, but my voice trembled and he caught it, his thumb sweeping down my throat, stroking the pulse he’d set thundering there.
His tongue pressed into my mouth, slow and deliberate, tasting me like he’d waited years for it. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far—just enough to study my face, eyes heavy and dark. “Jesus, you kiss like you’re starving.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Good.” His mouth covered mine again, this time rougher, his teeth catching my bottom lip.
The sharp sting sent a bolt of heat straight through me, and I moaned into him, grinding helplessly forward.
My thighs bracketed his on the couch, knees pressed awkwardly against the cushions.
He dragged me closer, strong hands anchoring me in place, letting me straddle one of his thighs, denim rough against my inner leg.
“Fuck, you’re trouble,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.
His lips skated down the edge of my jaw, grazing my stubble, then biting at the hinge of my jaw until I gasped and clung tighter.
His breath was hot, lips everywhere, teasing and coaxing, licking into the shell of my ear. “You taste like spice. Pumpkin, maybe.”
I barked out a laugh, shoving at his shoulder. “Don’t ruin this with seasonal bullshit.”
He laughed too, low and wicked, and then sucked a mark into the side of my neck, hard enough to make my hips jerk against him.
The friction made my eyes squeeze shut. He didn’t stop—his hands roamed up under the hem of my shirt, fingertips skimming the hot skin above my waistband, not pushing, just feeling, making me shake with every measured touch.
For a moment, we just breathed each other in.
The room felt too small, too hot. My forehead dropped to his shoulder, the smell of his cologne filling my lungs—rich and woodsy, edged with something sharp and expensive.
“You going to regret this?” I mumbled, teeth grazing his jaw. “Fooling around with your son’s rival?”
His chest shook as he laughed, head tipping back to bare his throat to me. “Probably. You think Derek’s going to murder me?”
“Only if you’re loud enough.”
That drew a real laugh out of him, and he dragged me up for another kiss—open-mouthed, filthy, all tongue and teeth and shameless hunger. My hands found their way under his shirt, splaying over the hard plane of his stomach, nails raking lightly, just to make him gasp.
He hissed, hips rolling up, and I felt the press of him, thick and hot behind his jeans, pushing into the seam of my thigh.
The friction made my head spin. Every time I tried to pull back for air, he dragged me in again, fingers digging into my hips, muttering nonsense against my lips—“so good, so fucking good, god, Miles, you feel—”