15. Things Happen
15
THINGS HAPPEN
Miles
A shot of the newlyweds dancing, Maeve’s head tipped back as she laughs. A photo of Max whispering something in Everly’s ear, her expression…serene. An image of Wesley standing behind Josie, his arms wrapped around her, amusement in her eyes. Pictures of Asher’s dads sharing a slice of cake. Maeve’s brother lifting a glass to toast.
“These are great,” I say, admiring the way Leighton captures a moment in time, each one rich with emotion and connection.
And then there’s a shot of me, elbows resting against the counter, looking pensive as I survey the scene. Alone, but watching. I try to place when it was taken, but I’m not sure.
“I don’t know what I was looking at,” I say, trying but failing to remember that moment. Mostly it feels like…the wh ole night. There’s a glass in my hand in the photo, and I’m just…watching.
“As a photographer, I’m more interested in what you were thinking,” she says, studying the viewfinder on her camera with the shot of me on it.
“What’s your take then? What was I thinking?” I ask, turning the question back on her, here in this corner of the bar.
We’re at The Spotted Zebra, tucked into a small booth in the back. The lights are low here, the vibe very much after dark, the music a little sultry. It might not have been the wisest choice for resisting, but the more I fall into Leighton’s orbit, the less I’m thinking rationally.
She has that effect on my brain—she makes everything warm and hazy.
She studies the picture a little more, then looks at me next to her. Her gaze on me right here, right now, tightens the pressure in my chest. She looks back at the photo. I’m wearing my glasses, like I am now, with a faraway look in my eyes. “I think you’re wondering,” she begins, her tone thoughtful, “what’s next for you. Where do you go from here? Will you live up to the captain job? And what will it cost?”
Talk about a mind reader.
“You got all that from a photo?” I ask, but she’s shockingly right. Those thoughts all ran through my mind.
“Yes, but in all fairness, I was looking for it too. I wanted to remember that moment in time. So I was trying to find your thoughts on your face and capture them in the picture. When I was taking it, I knew what to look for—the idea that you had a lot on your mind.”
I let out a low whistle, impressed with her artistry, her approach. “You’re good. I knew that, but I keep learning it. You seem to know how to…read a room, but really—to read people.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I hope so. But I also love it. Trying to find a story in what’s going on with the people I’m photographing. Sometimes it’s easy to just assign all these stories to people. But I think you have to know what you’re looking for, or at least be open to finding the stories they’re telling themselves.”
I think on that for a moment, linking it with what she said a few minutes ago about always taking pictures—like she did of us, of our first kiss. Like how she held on to those photos. “Do you look back at the pictures you take? I’ve read stats on the number of images humans now take every day and most seem so mundane. A receipt, where we parked our car, a schedule for a workout class.”
“A lot of photos are just notes. But the thing is, you could look back on those later, and read the story of your day, what was going on, what mattered to you in that moment.”
That’s one way of looking at disposable photos, but I don’t think that’s what she does behind the lens. “You’re not taking photos for notes though, are you?”
A soft smile shifts her lips as she shakes her head, looking like she appreciates being understood. “Not really. I want to capture experiences if I can.” Excitement builds in her tone as she says, “Think about how fast the world moves now. Our days fly by so quickly, filled with simple, incredible moments we don’t realize are special until later, when it’s too late. So I try to capture what’s happening now—what’s exciting us, worrying us, making us think. Then, someday, I can look at a picture and that memory won’t be lost. When I take pictures, I try to find the story of that moment, that unlost moment , so that I can feel it again later.”
I peer at the photo she took of me with new perspective. I’m pretty sure, against my plans, against my judgment, I was looking for time with her at the party.
No matter what I told myself.
It’s true I stayed to help a friend. But it was also a lie I told myself to be close to this woman. That was the story of my day. That’s the unlost moment.
With her so close, her hair cascading down her shoulder, that vanilla-brown sugar scent teasing me, it’s hard to remember that tonight I’d intended to put this thing between us squarely in the past, where it belongs.
That plan seems like a blur now. In a round booth at the back of the bar, with the lights low and us talking about the things that make us tick.
I swallow roughly. “I was looking at you.”
Her breath hitches. “You were?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “You’re not wrong. All those things went through my head, but mostly I was trying to look at you…while not looking at you.”
She licks her lips, glancing toward the bar’s front door, then back to me. “Were you successful?”
“Not in the least.” A fuck it mentality takes over as I slide a hand along her thigh under the table. It’s such a relief to touch her again. Such a privilege. It blots out everything around us.
She shudders, and the way it runs like a wave through her body spurs me on. I shouldn’t be touching her like this in public, but I do it anyway. No one can see my hand under the table.
But she can feel it .
So I run my hand down to her knee, cup it, then move my palm back up, covering her thigh.
A gust of breath escapes her pretty lips.
Her eyes float closed for a few dangerous seconds, and I’m tempted, so damn tempted to succumb to this…spell.
That’s how I feel with her.
Like there’s nothing else beyond The Spotted Zebra’s doors.
Like we’re immune to the world.
And I could lean in. Kiss that gorgeous mouth. Feel her melt under my touch. And forget the promises I made myself mere hours ago so I can take her home and fuck her again the way we both want.
Goddamn, I need to stop this train of thought.
Instead, I inch closer to Leighton, squeeze harder, touch more.
She shudders again and lets out the most intoxicating sound. My brain short-circuits. I’m not thinking. I’m just doing .
“I’m about as successful in not touching you as I was at not looking at you,” I murmur.
She turns her gaze slightly, her hair falling as she looks at me. “I’ve noticed.”
My touch turns softer now, more teasing as I drag my fingers slowly down her leg once more. “You’re a little irresistible, Leighton.”
Just like when I said I was a little into her.
“And you really should resist me,” she says, moving closer to me. We’ve created this vortex where we can give in—a no-man’s land, free of rules and consequences.
A space in the hazy glow of night where drinks flow, soft music pulses, and Leighton’s heady scent drifts around me .
“Yes, I should,” I say, breathless. Then she drops her hand under the table too, finding mine and then covering it.
Fuck me.
This wicked seduction should not feel so good. Her hand on mine sends electric pulses through my body. I swallow roughly, breathing out hard as she slides her fingers between mine, watching me the whole time.
My god, she’s so fucking sexy. Does she even realize what this simple touch does to me?
My money’s on yes. Her eyes are full of instinct, awareness, and passion as she glides her hand under mine so that our palms touch, our fingers clasp.
Heat roars in me.
I’m ridiculously turned on by this woman holding my hand under the table. This is how you touch someone’s hand before you fuck. This is foreplay. We steal touches and pile kindling on a fire while the flames crackle.
“I really should stop,” I rasp. Instead, I let go of her hand and trail my fingers along her forearm, tracing her ink there, and she trembles.
Her gaze drifts down, and she watches me touch her while seconds stretch into a fever dream. “I should go,” she says. “Maybe that’s easier.”
Her resolve spotlights that she’s better at this than I am. She’s got a stronger handle on this…thing between us.
I slump back, drag a hand through my hair, and swallow the longing I feel. My gaze falls absently on the two glasses on the table. Bubbly water for her. Iced tea for me. Was that intentional? Maybe I knew that if I got buzzed, I’d give in.
“I’ll drive you home,” I say .
She arches a brow, but she smirks too, wordlessly asking, Are we really going there ?
But I toss some bills on the table to cover the tab and leave the bar before either of us can say should or shouldn’t .
Once we’re in my car, I ask, “You still live at the same place?”
She shakes her head. “Actually, I moved into Maeve’s little apartment for a while. My former roomies were having really loud sex, like, all the time.”
I laugh as I turn into traffic. “That must have been annoying.”
She gives me the address and watches me plug it into the car’s navigation, then adds, “But Maeve’s windowsill is inhabited by some seriously randy pigeons. So I can’t seem to escape loud banging. You’d think for a girl with hearing loss, this wouldn’t be an issue. But you’d be wrong.”
I love that she can poke fun at herself. “I guess you’re not a voyeur, then?”
“You are correct,” she says, then adds, “but I’m moving back in with the loud sexers in a few weeks.”
“Need any help? With the move?” I ask without thinking. I know we shouldn’t be alone again, but here I am, offering to help her.
You’re alone in the car with her right now, you dickhead.
“I think I can manage,” she says. Her independent streak excites me, even though I kind of wish she’d say yes.
Her place isn’t too far away. I park on a side street and turn off the car. “Thanks for showing me the pictures,” I say, “and getting that drink.” Am I stalling? Maybe.
“Glad you liked them.” Her tone is teasing, playful. “Are you going to demand them from me again? ”
“Did I demand the last ones?”
She rolls her eyes. “You were kind of demanding, Miles.”
I think about the night she sent me the pics and the many nights I’ve spent with them since. “Worth it.” I hold her gaze and lick my lips. “So worth it.”
She doesn’t look away. I can’t say who breaks the stare first. But the next thing I know, my lips are crashing down on hers. She meets me, pressing closer, and I curl my hand around the back of her head.
I expect something like our first kiss in the studio—a sultry tango of a kiss, like a slow sip of brandy.
But this kiss is a shot of tequila. It streaks straight to my head, and I see stars. It’s white-hot, full of teeth and moans.
Leighton maneuvers a hand between us, grabbing my shirt collar and jerking me close. My glasses are in the way, so I wrench apart from her to rip them off, setting them—maybe—on the console. “Fucking glasses,” I mutter.
“They’re still hot,” she murmurs.
This woman.
She gets me going more than anyone ever has. “C’mere,” I say. “Need to kiss you again.”
“So do it,” she taunts.
I grip the back of her head again, and she gasps. Then I seal my lips to hers once more. I growl into her mouth, and the sound seems to excite her. She pulls me closer. I grip the back of her head tighter. We kiss deeper, our tongues skating together. Mouths exploring. Breath coming fast.
I slide my fingers into her hair and tighten my fist at her nape, tipping her chin to the perfect angle. I coast my lips down her throat, kissing the soft, delicate skin there, my free hand tugging at the top of her shirt.
I should stop. Really, I should.
But she lets go of my collar, wraps her hands around my head, and jerks me closer to her chest.
Fuck yes.
I groan against her skin and kiss her more—the hollow of her throat, the dip of her collarbone, the side of her neck. Her jaw next, grazing my teeth along it, before I meet her lips again.
One more shot , I tell myself.
One for the road.
I raise my face and then drop my lips more gently onto hers. This is me hitting the brakes. I slow down as our mouths meet again and run my fingers along her arms, savoring one last kiss.
Then I let go.
We’re both panting.
Eyes are glazed.
Windows are fogged.
I’ve already gone further than I should.
I shoot her a rueful half-smile, then do what I should have earlier instead of giving in to this wild need that inhabits me when I’m near her. “We probably shouldn’t be alone together again.” I somehow manage to choke out the words, hating each one.
“No,” Leighton says. “We definitely shouldn’t.”
She sounds resolute. Thank god, because I’m sure as hell not.
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I guess you’re more than a little irresistible.” I lift my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.
The callback to earlier makes her chuckle. “You too. ”
The words warm my chest. Leighton lifts a hand and slides a thumb along my jaw, brushing over my stubble before letting go and picking up my glasses. “Here you go.”
I slide them back on and blow out a breath. “Bye, Leighton,” I say, then shake my head, frustrated with myself. “And I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For breaking our…deal not to do this again.”
Her sigh is heavy and a little wistful. “I broke it too. Things happen.”
She’s letting me off easy, but I’ll take it. “I guess they do.”
“We’ll make a new promise,” she says.
“That we won’t be alone together.” I offer my hand to seal the agreement—and to test whether I can touch her without pulling her into my arms.
She shakes my hand, proving it’s possible. “Good night, Falcon.”
“Good night, Shutterbug.”
She collects her bags and climbs out of the car, heading to her building. At the door, she gives a brief wave goodbye before going inside.
I don’t leave right away. I sit behind the wheel. Drag a hand through my hair. Stare out the window while I replay the night.
Finally, I go too.
When I get home, I call my brother and refocus on my responsibilities—to the team, to my family, to myself. And…to the coach. I won’t let them down. It’s time to move forward. That’s the only way I know.