Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
MAISY
I’m curled up on the couch across from Sterling, a paperback open in my hands, pretending to read while he’s absorbed in whatever he’s doing on his laptop. The words on the page blur together, meaningless, because all I can think about is what happened earlier.
The almost kiss.
If Levi hadn’t interrupted us on the slope, what would’ve happened? Would Sterling have actually kissed me? The look in his eyes had said yes, and I don’t blame him. I wanted it even more than he did. I still want it.
Sterling cooked dinner when we got home—steak and mashed potatoes—and instead of disappearing into his bedroom, he parked himself on the couch with his laptop.
I contemplate whether I should start the conversation and confront the elephant in the room.
Stealing another glance, I notice how his jaw is sharply defined in the glow of the screen, brows furrowed in concentration.
He looks up, catching me staring, and I nearly drop my book to the floor.
My eyes dart back down to the page, flipping it without a clue of what the hell I just read.
After a few minutes, I peek back up at him and he’s returned to focusing on his laptop, but there’s an amused glimmer in his eyes.
Great. He totally knows I’m staring again.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus. This time, I swear I’m actually going to read, but before I can make it two sentences in, the room plunges into darkness, and the soft hum of appliances dies. The only light left is Sterling’s laptop glow.
“What the hell?” I mutter, already digging my phone from the cushions to tap on the flashlight. A weak beam shines across the room.
Sterling closes his laptop and turns on his flashlight too. “Do we need to flip the breaker?”
I pad to the west-side window, pressing close to the glass. Down in Bluewater Bluffs, the town lights blink off in waves, a domino trail until the whole valley is swallowed in shadow. “I don’t think flipping the breaker is going to help. It’s not just us—it’s everywhere.”
“Town-wide blackout?” He comes to stand beside me, shoulder brushing mine as we both look out.
“Looks like it.”
He exhales, running his hand through his hair before heading toward the back door. “Then I’d better get the fire going. Don’t want us freezing to death if this lasts.”
I watch as he disappears onto the back deck, his flashlight beam bobbing while he grabs a couple of logs from the woodpile. He returns with them balanced easily under one arm, the other tugging the door shut with a thud.
He kneels at the fireplace, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, and my eyes betray me—fixating on him instead of what he’s doing.
His forearms are all lean strength, sinew shifting beneath tanned skin.
Veins ridge the surface, not in an overdone way, but enough to remind me how easily those hands could pin me, hold me, protect me.
When he presses the newspaper into the grate, the muscles in his wrist flex, a smooth ripple that makes my stomach tighten.
The lighter sparks, flames catching fast, the crackle of burning paper filling the silence before the logs flare.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
The warmth licks at my skin as the glow stretches into the room, but I’m not watching the fire at all.
I’m watching him. Watching the way strength looks effortless on him, the way his body feels like a memory.
And God help me, I can’t stop wondering how those arms would feel if they wrapped around me again.
I sink back into the couch and raise my book like a shield, trying to keep his arms from view before he notices, but Sterling crosses the room, plucks the book straight from my hands, and sets the bookmark in before he closes it with a firm snap.
“Hey!” I reach for it, frowning.
“If I don’t get to be productive,” he says, smirking down at me, “you don’t get to hide in your book.”
“Uh, excuse me?” I protest. “I wasn’t hiding. Plus, I never told you that you couldn’t go back on your laptop.”
He sighs, tapping a knuckle lightly against my head like he’s testing for hollowness. “Power’s out, genius. That means no Wi-Fi.”
Heat rushes to my face. “Oh, right.”
He smirks harder at my embarrassment, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So, what do we do now?”
I shrug, fighting the flutter in my chest. “You tell me.”
Sterling thinks for a beat, the fire painting shadows across his features. “Do you have any board games?”
A smile spreads across my face. “Actually…yes.”
I hop up, my excitement tugging me across the room to the bookshelf. Kneeling, I rummage through the bottom shelf until my hand lands on the box I’ve been looking for. I turn back to him with a grin.
He ambles over, slowly, like he knows I’m watching the way his body moves. My heart kicks up a notch in response because how can he have changed so much in just three years?
When he sees what I’m holding, his brows shoot up. “Candyland?”
“The original version,” I say proudly.
He takes the box, studying it like it’s some ancient relic. “Is there a difference between this one and the newer one?”
I take the box back from him and plop onto the rug in front of the fire, the game in my lap. “The art is better. The new one looks cheap.”
His chuckle rumbles low, and when I glance up, his eyes are still on me, the firelight flickering across them in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Focus, Maisy.
Sterling disappears into the kitchen while I set up the board on the rug, smoothing it flat. A moment later, I hear the pop of a cork, and when I look over, he’s walking back with a bottle of red in one hand and two glasses dangling from the other.
My brows shoot up. “What, we’re turning Candyland into a drinking game now?”
He smirks, setting the bottle on the side table beside us before lowering himself to the floor next to me. “Why not? High stakes. Loser drinks.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how Candyland was designed,” I tease, watching him pour a glass and hand it to me. His fingers brush mine when I take it, lingering a second too long and causing my pulse to stutter.
He shrugs, pouring his own. “Then consider this the adult edition.”
I sip the smooth wine, warming me from the inside out. “You realize you’re going to regret this when you’re chugging glass after glass, right?”
Sterling chuckles low in his throat, leaning back on one arm, wine glass in the other. “Confidence looks dangerously good on you.” He raises his glass in a mock toast, eyes holding mine. “To dangerous confidence.”
I clink my glass against his, my heart racing. “And to your impending defeat.”
He grins, that slow, devastating grin that always undoes me, and sets his glass down beside the board.
“Let’s play.”
Sterling fans out the cards between his big hands, shaking them like he’s shuffling for high stakes poker instead of a kid’s game.
“Alright, rules are simple,” he says, a playful challenge in his eyes. “Every time you hit a setback—stuck square, licorice, whatever it’s called—you drink.”
I snort, tucking my legs under me as I settle closer to the fire. “Whatever.”
His smirk tilts. “You’re not backing down, are you?”
I meet his gaze head-on and lift my glass. “Not a chance.”
When we start, Sterling picks the blue game piece, and I pick the red. He pulls the first card, moves his piece, and smirks up at me like he’s already winning. I roll my eyes and take my turn.
When I land on a licorice square, Sterling leans toward me, my glass in his hand, and murmurs, “Drink up, Hart,” as he passes it to me.
I groan, taking a dramatic sip before narrowing my eyes at him. “Enjoy this moment, because it’s the last one you’re getting.”
“Big talk,” he teases, his knee bumping mine as he slides his pawn across the board. The touch should be casual, but he doesn’t move it, and neither do I.
The wine loosens us both while we play, and by the time I pull a card that rockets me ahead, I can’t help squealing with excitement. “Oh my God, yes!”
Sterling leans back on his hands, watching me with that slow grin. “Look at you. Smug as hell. I should make you drink for celebrating too hard.”
“Not in the rules,” I sing-song, taking a sip anyway, just to taunt him.
“I don’t remember making a rule that prevents adding rules while playing,” he says, eyes sliding down to my mouth before dragging back up.
I feel it like a spark under my skin, and my pulse skips. To cover it, I stick my tongue out at him and nudge his shoulder. “You’re just mad I’m winning.”
He leans in so close that the warmth of the fire, the wine, and his presence all blur together. “Maybe I’m letting you win, like I did on the slope.”
“I won fair and square,” I protest.
“Of course you did,” he says, with a lazy smirk.
His hand brushes mine when he goes for his glass, fingers grazing just enough to make my breath catch. I lift my own glass and sip to distract myself, but the glass trembles slightly in my grip.
“Careful, Mais,” he mumbles, watching me over the rim of his glass. “You’re gonna spill.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, but my voice betrays me, soft and shaky.
He doesn’t call me out, his smirk lingering as he flips his next card and slides his pawn forward, like he’s playing two games at once—Candyland, and me.
And he’s winning both.
I move my pawn along the path, trying not to look too smug when I land on a shortcut. Sterling groans, dragging a hand through his hair like the fate of the world depends on Candyland.
“You’re cheating somehow,” he mutters.
I grin, sipping the last of my wine. “You can’t cheat in Candyland, genius. It’s pure luck.”
“Or witchcraft,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me in mock suspicion.
I laugh, but the sound hitches as a shiver runs through me. Damn. That happens every time I drink because my body loves to overreact, even when I’m not cold.
Sterling notices instantly, and his head tilts, brows furrowing. “You’re cold.”
“I’m not, I swear—”
But before I can explain, he’s already reaching behind him, snagging the thick knit blanket off of the couch. He unfolds it and then, without a second’s hesitation, tugs me straight into his side.
My heart kicks up. “Sterling—”
“Shut up and let me help for once,” he murmurs, pulling the blanket around both of us until I’m cocooned against him. His chest is firm beneath my cheek, radiating warmth, his arm heavy and protective across my shoulder.
I should move and laugh it off, push him away, something. Anything. But instead, I breathe him in—soap and amber and something distinctly him—and melt into the solid line of his body. This is exactly where I want to be.
“Better?” he asks, voice low near my temple.
I nod, though the shivering hasn’t stopped. It’s not the cold. It’s the wine, the fire, the way every nerve ending in my body is suddenly on high alert because he’s holding me like this. It’s the adrenaline of being near Sterling.
The game sits abandoned on the rug, our pieces stranded mid-board. His thumb strokes idly against my arm through the blanket, sending tiny sparks shooting under my skin.
I miss this. It feels so right to be in his arms like this, like a piece of me that’s been missing for the last three years is finally back, completing me. I tip my head back without meaning to, and when I do, I find his eyes already on me.
The world narrows to the steady beat of my heart in my ears, the firelight reflected in his gaze, and the way his lips part just slightly as if he’s contemplating something.
He doesn’t move for a long, breathless second. Then, slowly, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away, he lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss is soft at first, but the second my lips part, he deepens it. His hand slides up, cupping my jaw, angling me toward him, and I sigh into him like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks.
The blanket slips off my shoulder as I twist closer, clutching his shirt in my fist. His lips are warm, insistent, stealing every thought from my head until there’s nothing but heat and want and the rush of finally, finally letting go.
The hand that’s not cradling my jaw slides down, gripping my hip through the blanket, tugging me closer until I’m straddling him.
A soft sound escapes from me, half gasp, half moan, and his lips press harder, hungrier. His tongue teases mine, and I can taste the wine—sweet and dizzying. My fingers tug at his shirt, desperate to be closer.
“Fuck, Maisy,” Sterling groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating straight through me, and it makes me burn everywhere at once.
His hand skims down my thigh, squeezing, before sliding back up under the blanket.
My skin tingles in its wake, heat pooling low in my stomach.
I tilt my head, opening for him, and the kiss turns needy—messy, devouring, like we can’t get enough of each other.
My body hums with it, alive in a way I haven’t felt in forever.
But just as quickly, the lamp on the side table blazes to life, the hum of the fridge roars from the kitchen, and the overhead lights flood the room in sudden brightness.
Sterling freezes and so do I when we realize the power’s back. Our lips hover just barely apart, breaths colliding, both of us wide-eyed in the shock of being caught by reality itself.
Sterling blinks first, swallowing hard as he leans back slightly. “The power’s back.”
I bite my lip, heart racing, still clutching his shirt like I’m not ready to let go. Slowly, I loosen my grip and climb off him, trying to catch my breath, pretending like my whole world didn’t just tilt on its axis.
“I think I should go to bed,” I whisper, breathless.
He doesn’t argue. He just nods, slow and deliberate. “Yeah.” Rising to his feet, he offers me his hand. “That’s probably a good idea.”
I slip my fingers into his, letting him pull me up—but instead of releasing me, his thumb brushes once across my knuckles before he exhales. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have—”
I cut him off before he finishes. “Don’t,” I say firmly, meeting his eyes. “Not a single thing that happened tonight needs an apology.”
Surprise flickers in his gaze, and I squeeze his hand once before letting go. “Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
His jaw tightens, like there’s more he wants to say, but all that comes out is a quiet, “Good night.”
I walk to my room, leaving the board game on the floor and Sterling standing in the living room as he watches me go.
Behind the safety of my door, my back hits the wood and I press my palms to my face, willing my breath to even out. Because the awful, brutal truth is that I want him. I want Sterling like a starving person wants food, like no time has passed, like I didn’t ruin everything we were.
And that’s the part that guts me. How can I even want him, when I’m the reason he left in the first place? When I’m the one who broke us, who pushed him away, who couldn’t stand to let him see me shattered and weak?
I thought I was protecting him. Instead, I destroyed him.
And now he’s here again.
And wanting him feels like reaching for something I already lost.
Something I don’t deserve.