Chapter 11
Eleven
Livvie was in trouble.
She’d known it the moment Nate had picked her up at Lila’s cottage—known it when he’d stepped out of that ridiculous vintage Porsche in a charcoal Henley that fit him like it had been tailored specifically to ruin her life.
The fabric stretched across his shoulders, hinted at the chest underneath, and she’d had to look away before her brain short-circuited entirely.
This was not the plan.
The plan had been simple—help the grumpy hermit author finish his book, save her job, go back to New York.
Nowhere in that plan had she accounted for the grumpy hermit author cleaning up like this—freshly shaved jaw, although the five-o’clock shadow definitely worked for him, dark, curly hair still damp from the shower, those intense hazel-brown eyes watching her with something that looked dangerously like interest.
She’d spent a week trying hard—and frankly, winning—at keeping a professional distance and appropriate boundaries and definitely not thinking about his hands or his voice or the way his shoulders moved when he reached for something.
And especially not thinking about what it might be like to kiss him, the taste of him, that old what-if still alive inside her.
Oh boy.
She’d thought she was doing a good job.
She was not doing a good job.
Because now she was sitting across from him, candlelight playing across his features, and every carefully constructed wall was crumbling like wet sand.
She needed the grump back, the surly hermit who wouldn’t look at her, the man in the ratty sweater who barely spoke in complete sentences. This version was going to destroy her.
And now he was looking at her, and the weight of his attention made her breath catch. Those eyes. Dark and deep and focused entirely on her, like she was the only person in the room. Like she was the only person in the world.
Stop. He’s a client. He’s grieving. He’s—
He was leaning forward slightly, the sleeves of the Henley pushed up over strong forearms as he rested them on the table.
She grabbed her wineglass and took a drink that was probably too large to be polite.
Stop. It.
“Oh my goodness, are you Ian Rivers?”
Livvie had never been so grateful for an interruption in her life.
Clearly, his appearance in town was making a splash.
“I was sure it had to be you,” said the woman, holding hands with her date. The young couple was sweet—enthusiastic and gushing, clearly genuine fans. Nate posed for a photo with them, ducking his head in that sheepish way he had, his shoulders tensing with discomfort even as he smiled.
He was bad at this. At being seen. At accepting admiration.
She found it unbearably endearing.
And then Nate sat back down across from her, running a hand through those dark curls, wearing a self-deprecating smile, and yeah, she was clearly in way over her head.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“Don’t be.” She dragged her eyes away from imagining what it would feel like to run her own fingers through that hair. “The books matter to people. Your words matter.”
He smiled at her, and something in her chest turned over. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Oh. Um. And for a second, her brain simply stopped. Don’t say that. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t be sweet and vulnerable and handsome and—
“I’m glad I’m here too,” she managed.
The walk along the boardwalk was a terrible idea.
She’d known it when he suggested it. Known it when she agreed. Known it with absolute certainty when they stepped out of the restaurant into the cold September night and he immediately moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers as they walked.
“You’re shivering,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
And then he was shrugging off his jacket—that worn canvas jacket that smelled like autumn and cedar and him—and draping it around her shoulders, and his hands lingered, and she forgot how to breathe.
“Better?” he asked.
His voice was close. So close. She looked up, and he was right there, his face inches from hers, moonlight catching the dark intensity of his eyes.
“Yeah.” It came out as a whisper. “Better.”
Move, she told herself. Step back. Say something professional. Ask about the word count.
She didn’t move.
He didn’t either.
His hands were still on her shoulders, warm through the jacket, and she was suddenly, viscerally aware of how big they were. How easily they could span her waist. How they’d feel sliding into her hair, cupping her face, pulling her closer—
This was insane. A week ago, it’d felt like he could barely look at her. A week ago, she was just the annoying deadline enforcer. What had changed?
But she knew what had changed. He’d started writing again. He’d started living again. And apparently, so had parts of her she’d thought were safely dormant.
“We should probably…” she started.
“Yeah,” he said. “We should.”
Except she didn’t move. Because just like years ago, here she was, caught in the magic that was Nate Rivers.
“Livvie.” His voice was rough. Almost hoarse. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
His thumb moved. A brush against her collarbone, so light she might have imagined it. Except she didn’t imagine the way her whole body turned hot.
“I haven’t felt like this in a long time.” His eyes searched her face. “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like this.”
Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. “Like what?”
“Like I want—” He stopped. His jaw tightened. She watched a muscle flex there, and even that—even that—made her entire body simmer. “Like I want things I’m not sure I’m allowed to want.”
And all she could think was…kiss me, Nate.
Aw, shoot.
But yay too, because his hand slid from her shoulder to her jaw. His thumb traced her cheekbone, and she shivered—from the way his touch left fire in its wake. From the way he was looking at her mouth like he was starving and she was the only thing that could save him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Do you know that? With your freckles and your smile and the way you believe in everyone except yourself—”
“Nate—”
“I’ve been trying not to notice.” His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, and her lips parted involuntarily. “I’ve been trying so hard. But you just…charged into my life and…I had to admit that I’ve never forgotten you, Livvie.”
She should stop this. She knew she should stop this. Richard’s voice was somewhere in the back of her head, saying don’t screw this up, and her career was on the line, and this was reckless and stupid and—
“I didn’t forget you either,” she whispered.
His eyes went dark. Darker. His hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, tilting her face up toward his.
He was going to kiss her.
He was actually going to kiss her, and she was going to let him, and tomorrow everything would be different, and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except the heat of his hand in her hair and the way his breath was coming faster and the impossible, electric tension between them.
“Livvie.” Her name in his mouth was a prayer. A plea. “Tell me this is a bad idea…”
Probably. But she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Her hands had fisted in the front of his Henley, pulling him closer, and she could feel the heat of him through the fabric, could feel the rapid beat of his heart under her palms.
“Tell me I should stop,” he said, closer now, and then his lips brushed hers—not quite a kiss, not yet, just the ghost of contact that sent lightning through her whole body. “Because if you don’t—”
Her phone rang.
The sound threw water over them. They jerked apart, both breathing hard, and Livvie fumbled for her phone.
Richard Ames.
Of course. Of course.
“You need to take that?”
She shook her head, and swiped it off. But, well, Nate had stepped away, his mouth tight.
“That looked like your boss.”
She nodded. “He’s been calling about updates.”
Nate’s mouth tightened. “Right. Yes.” He blew out a breath. “Right.”
The magic was gone—replaced by something awkward and charged, the space between them filled with everything they hadn’t said, hadn’t done, hadn’t let themselves finish.
He didn’t take her hand as they walked back to the car. He drove her home in silence, although he got out as if…
But no. He just came around to open her door, help pry her out of his vintage Porsche.
Then they stood there like a couple of teenagers.
Great. They were back to that summer, and she still hadn’t gotten her kiss.
“Thank you,” Livvie said. “For dinner. For…everything.”
“Thank you for what you said. About the writing.” He met her eyes, and even now—even with the moment shattered—the intensity there made her breath catch. “It meant a lot.”
“I meant it.”
“I know.”
Silence. The porch light flickered.
She should say good night. Go inside—
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said again. Quieter this time. “I know I already said that. But I am. Even if it’s only to get words out of me.” He gave her a sad, wry smile.
Oh. Yeah. But her heart cracked open.
And for a second, she didn’t care if he finished his book.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “For some great writing.”
And then—because she was Livvie Fox and she apparently had zero control over herself when this man was involved—she did finger guns.
Finger guns.
She even clicked her tongue and said, “You got it, champ.”
Champ.
Oh brother.
Please let the ground open up and swallow her.
Nate stared at her. A beat. Two.
And then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. A real laugh—warm and surprised and genuine, transforming his whole face, making his eyes crinkle at the corners and his shoulders shake. He had a dimple, she realized. Just one. On the left side.
She was going to die thinking about that dimple.
“Did you just finger-guns me?” he asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You said ‘champ.’”
“I’m going inside now.”
“Livvie.” He was still laughing. Still smiling. Still looking at her like she was the most delightful thing he’d ever seen. “That was adorable.”
“It was mortifying. Good night.”
She turned toward the cottage, face burning.
“Livvie.”
She stopped. Didn’t turn around. Couldn’t.