Chapter 6
The rest of the date goes off without a hitch.
Trey’s easy to talk to, and I even manage to laugh a few times. Real ones, not just the nervous kind I’ve been faking all night. We swap stories about high school, bad bosses, and the weirdest things we’ve eaten at county fairs. I enjoy myself.
For the most part.
But every now and then when Trey’s looking at the menu, or laughing at something I’ve said my gaze drifts across the room.
To him.
Will doesn’t look once.
Not even a flicker.
He’s gone full ghost mode. One hundred percent ignoring me like it’s his job. Like I’m just another face in a sea of regulars, not the girl he kissed against a wall less than an hour ago. Not the girl who knows exactly what his mouth tastes like and how he sounds when he lets his guard slip.
He even sends someone else to bring our next round of beers, like the act of approaching the table himself might physically hurt him.
And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d glared.
Around eleven, Trey yawns, his hand covering it politely. “Sorry. Long day at work.”
I smile, grateful for the out. “I feel that. I was out at the ranch helping tag calves this morning.”
He tilts his head, that boyish smile tugging at his mouth. “So the perfect girl does exist.”
I roll my eyes.
“Want to call it a night?” he asks. “I can walk you back to your place.”
“That would be nice,” I say, grabbing my bag.
We stand, and he tosses some cash on the table for a tip that’s more than fair. Then he reaches for my hand again, fingers lacing easily through mine.
We step out into the night.
Cool air greets us, sharp and fresh after the warmth of the bar.
The noise fades behind us as we walk, hand in hand, down the quiet sidewalk.
But even as the stars stretch wide above us, and Trey hums something low and familiar, part of me is still inside Flowers End.
Still standing in front of Will. Still wondering if he even felt it.
By the time we reach my apartment above Knot and Spur, the town has gone mostly quiet. Porch lights glow soft across the street, and the cicadas are humming just loud enough to fill the silence between us.
Trey walks me to the bottom of the stairs and follows me halfway up, still holding my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“This was nice,” he says, pausing at the landing.
“It was,” I reply, meaning it even if my heart’s still somewhere between the bar and the past I can’t seem to shake.
He looks at me like he’s weighing something, then tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve changed, you know. In a good way. I like it.”
I smile softly. “Thanks.”
“I’d really like to see you again.”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t like him. I do. He’s kind, and easy to be around, and everything that makes sense. But sense doesn’t always set your skin on fire.
“I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it enough for tonight.
He leans in then, kissing me gently. It’s sweet. And safe.
When he pulls back, he smiles. “Sleep good, Phern.”
“You too.”
I watch him head back down the stairs and disappear into the night before turning to unlock my door.
But the moment it clicks open and I step inside, everything I’ve been holding in crashes down around me. Because this place may be mine, quiet and patchouli-free, but it still feels empty. And no matter how good Trey was he wasn’t Will.
I kick off my boots with a groan, letting them land somewhere near the door, and drag a hand through my hair, tugging at the elastic until my ponytail falls loose.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel right now. Not after that kiss with Will. Not after holding hands with one guy while wanting another. My whole body is buzzing and aching in all the wrong places.
My phone dings.
I snatch it up like a lifeline, heart stuttering, only to deflate the second I see the name on the screen.
Tish Garcia
How was the date?
Shit! Unless you’re still on it!
If so, ignore me until later.
I’m home.
Well???
It was good.
There’s a pause, which with Tish means she’s cooking up something.
Did you ever take my suggestion?
***
How convenient of you to forget.
I’m talking about what I told you at the wedding. About getting out there and getting laid.
Oh. That.
No, I haven’t given it much thought.
You should. It’ll do you some good to get out of that house and into someone’s bed.
Here. I’m sending you an article.
It has some good tips in there. You’re welcome.
Thanks.
Let me know how it goes. I’m off to the bar!
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I click the link.
“Every Place and Position a Woman Under 30 Should Have on Her Fuck-It List.”
I raise an eyebrow. “This is going to be riveting,” I mutter, but I keep reading.
And the shocking thing? It is riveting.
Bold. Unapologetic. Honest in a way that makes something stir low in my stomach.
It’s all about women reclaiming their own desires on their own terms. Not waiting around for love or permission or the right person.
Just doing what feels good, what feels right, and making a damn list if that’s what it takes.
By the time I reach the end, I’m chewing on my bottom lip, my phone still glowing in my hand.
A fuck-it list.
I’ve never even thought about making one. My life’s been built around rules and waiting for the right moment, the right guy, the right everything. But what if I stopped waiting? What would my list look like?
I grab a pen and notepad from my bag and stare at the blank space for a long beat. Then I write across the top.
Phern’s Fuck-It List.
And slowly, with a wicked grin tugging at the corner of my mouth, I start to write.
Even though I’ve got about zero hands-on experience, I know what turns me on when I read. The slow-burn tension. The hands-gripping-hips urgency. The whispered filth that makes your pulse stutter.
So I write those things down.
Then I start writing things that remind me of Will. The way his voice drops when he’s pissed. The way he looked at me tonight, like I was already undressed in his head. The feel of his thigh pressed between mine, his breath hot against my neck.
By the time I hit number seven on my list, I’m squirming.
That’s when I grab my laptop and open an incognito window. At first, I just browse a porn site. Nothing too scandalous. But then I start typing: Brother’s best friend. Cowboys.
Holy hell.
Some of that stuff is very specific. And not in a bad way.
I click on a video with a ridiculous title. Something about a cowboy and his “little miss”. And sure, it’s cheesy as hell. But the moment the guy shows up in boots and a Stetson, voice all gravel and drawl, something low in my stomach clenches.
It’s the rope in his hands. The command in his voice. The look in his eyes like he owns the room and her. The room goes quiet except for the sound of my own shallow breathing and the soft moans coming from my laptop.
And that’s when I glance out the window.
Will’s apartment is across the way, just beyond the alley.
His blinds are open, and he’s sitting on the couch.
Shirt off, beer in hand, like some kind of small-town sin.
He looks relaxed. Unbothered. Like he didn’t press me against a wall tonight and nearly wreck my entire ability to think straight.
As the symphony of groans and breathy gasps plays on, I don’t even realize my hand’s moving until it is. Slowly hiking up the hem of my lace skirt, breath catching in my throat.
I watch Will.
And I wonder what it would feel like if he were the one watching me. Touching me…
Will’s leaned back on the couch, one arm slung over the back, beer bottle dangling loosely in his hand. His attention’s on the TV—or at least, it was—until he shifts. His head turns. Slowly. And then?
He looks up.
Right at me.
My breath catches. Not because I flinch or duck out of sight. But because I don’t. I want him to see me.
The laptop is still glowing on my coffee table, casting flickering light across my thighs. The cowboy in the video is murmuring something filthy, and the woman’s answering moan scrapes against my nerves in all the right ways.
My skirt is bunched around my hips now. My hand slides beneath it, fingertips grazing lace and heat and need.
I don’t look away from Will.
His posture shifts. But I see it. The tightening of his jaw. The slow lowering of his beer. The way his gaze darkens like he’s not just watching, he’s claiming.
I bite my bottom lip, breath stuttering as my fingers dip beneath the edge of my panties, brushing where I’m already warm and aching.
He sees me.
He knows what I’m doing.
And he’s not moving.
Not turning away.
Not closing his curtains.
My eyes flutter closed for a second as I touch myself, the sounds from the laptop, the thrill of being watched, the danger of it all building like a storm inside me. My breath comes faster, thighs trembling slightly as I circle my fingers, chasing that edge.
When I look again Will hasn’t moved.
His hand’s resting on his thigh now, flexed tight, like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got. He tilts his head, and his eyes burn straight through the glass.
It pushes me over the edge.
My free hand slaps against the floor for balance as pleasure crashes through me, wave after dizzying wave. I bite my lip to stifle the sound, body arching, eyes locked with his even as I come apart under my own fingers.
When it’s over, I sit there, panting, legs shaking, heart pounding like I’ve just done something reckless. Because I have.
And he saw all of it.
I smooth my skirt back down, close the laptop with a trembling hand. When I look again, Will’s still there. Still watching. Only now? He’s smirking. Like he just won a game we never admitted we were playing.
Suddenly, I feel exposed.
My cheeks burn as I stand and all but run from my living room to my bedroom. I kick aside a sock on the floor, peel off my skirt, and crawl under the covers in just my shirt and underwear. My sheets are cool against my skin, but it doesn’t soothe me.
Because now that the rush has faded, all that’s left is the echo of want and a pit forming in my stomach.
What the hell was I thinking?
It wasn’t just about me.
Will saw.
And I wanted him to.
And worse, I liked that he watched.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me, but the heat still lingers between my legs. So does the ache in my chest.
What did that look like to him? Desperate? Pathetic?
God.
A sharp sting builds behind my eyes.
I don’t regret the feeling. But I regret the aftermath. I regret wanting him enough to break every wall I’d built just to feel something again.
I curl tighter into myself, whispering the lie I’ve used so many times before.
It didn’t mean anything.
But it did. And now, I don’t know what to do with that.