Chapter 17
ELIJAH
I kissed her.
I. Kissed. Sam.
I, Elijah Deveraux, who has spent years carefully establishing boundaries with Samantha Westbrook, threw them all away for one stupid, incredible, mind-blowing kiss. The reality of what I've done hits me like a blindside check into the boards as I stare at my ceiling, the room spinning slightly from the beer or maybe from the sheer stupidity of what I just did.
Why the hell did I do that? Fuck!
Now I'm pretty sure she's already started scribbling our goddamn names together again, doodling little hearts around "Samantha Deveraux" in that journal she thinks nobody knows about.
I'm supposed to give her reasons to stop chasing after me, to end her one-sided love madness for me... but after that kiss, I can kiss that goodbye.
Kiss. That fucking word.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars, trying to blot out the memory, but it's like trying to unsee a car crash. The details are seared into my brain, high-definition and on endless replay.
Her mouth tasted like the cinnamon rolls she'd been eating while watching the game—warm cinnamon and melted sugar, with a faint trace of butter. I remember the tiny gasp she made when my lips touched hers, the way her body went rigid with surprise before melting against me.
How her fingers, hesitant at first, came to rest against my chest, curling into the fabric of my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear if she didn't hold on.
And me?
I didn't just peck her and pull away like a decent human being with an ounce of self-control. No. I fucking lingered there, my hand finding the curve of her waist, drawing her closer until I could feel the heat radiating from her body through her thin blouse.
When her lips parted beneath mine, I actually—Jesus Christ—I actually deepened the kiss, like some kind of possessed man, like I'd been waiting to do it my entire life.
Which I absolutely have not.
I grab my pillow and press it against my face, letting out a muffled scream of frustration. What the actual fuck is wrong with me? Four beers. Four measly beers, and I throw away years of carefully constructed distance?
"It was the concussion," I mutter into the pillow, testing out excuses. "Yeah, Doc said I might have some impulse control issues."
Right... Nobody's going to buy that bullshit, especially not Sam with her annoying ability to see right through me.
I sit up abruptly, dragging my hands through my hair. Maybe I can just blame the alcohol. Tell her I was wasted and don't remember a thing. But who the hell gets wasted on four beers? Not me who's been drinking since I was fifteen. No one's going to believe that either.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chant, throwing off my covers and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
The room tilts slightly, but it's not from the alcohol. It's from the heat spreading through my body, pooling below my waist where an unmistakable bulge has formed in my sweatpants. The same bulge that's been there since I kissed her and hasn't gone away despite my increasingly desperate attempts to think about literally anything else.
I don't know when my body started treating the sight of Sam like a defibrillator, but here we are—my common sense flatlining while other parts stand at full attention.
"Stop it," I growl, glaring down at my betraying body. "This is not happening."
But it is happening.
It' s been happening since I saw her swimming in that red bikini that wasn't even trying to be provocative but somehow made every curve of her body look like it was specifically designed to short-circuit my brain.
And then she climbed out of the pool and walked away with this little hip sway that I'm pretty sure was calculated biological warfare. She had to know I was watching—nobody accidentally walks like that. Like her hips were conducting a symphony only my body could hear.
And it's been happening since that rainy scene in the stupid movie we watched earlier—the one where the couple on screen crashed into each other, soaked and desperate. I don't know what possessed me to look over at Sam, to check how she was reacting to it.
Curiosity, maybe. Or some lapse in judgment I still don't have an excuse for.
But I did.
And that's when I saw it—her lips parting just slightly, her eyes went lidded, heavy with an emotion I recognized but refused to name. The tip of her tongue slipped out, brushing her lower lip before she caught it between her teeth, like she didn't even realize she was doing it. An unconscious gesture that hit me like a physical force, drawing my attention to the soft, inviting curve of her mouth.
It was like time stopped.
I couldn't move, couldn't speak.
Something electric shot through me, and suddenly I was aware of Sam in a way I'd never allowed myself to be before. Not as the annoying girl who'd had a crush on me. Not as my best friend's little sister who I had to tolerate every day.
But as a woman, with soft curves and expressive eyes and lips that looked so goddamn—
"Nope. No. Not doing this," I say out loud, standing up too quickly and nearly tripping over my gym bag. I pace the length of my dorm room, four steps one way, four steps back.
Maybe I should just tell her the truth tomorrow. "Hey, Sam, sorry about that kiss. I just found your full, plump lips so tempting when you were licking frosting off them that I had a momentary lapse of rationality, and the alcohol got free reign on me. No big deal, right?"
Yeah, that'll go over great.
Or maybe I should go full ridiculous: "I think I've got a brain bleed. My judgment's impaired. In fact, I should probably get myself back to the doctor tomorrow, just in case. That's why I kissed you. Not because I wanted to or anything."
I drop back onto my bed, flopping onto my back. The ceiling fan spins lazily above me, its rhythm doing nothing to calm my racing thoughts. I can still feel the phantom pressure of her lips against mine, still taste the sweetness of her mouth.
Still feel the way she sighed against me, like she'd been holding her breath for years and could finally exhale.
The memory sends another rush of heat through me, and the discomfort beneath my sweatpants intensifies. I groan, rolling onto my stomach to alleviate the pressure, but that only makes it worse, creating friction against the mattress that my body immediately responds to.
"Oh fucking stop!" I snap, flipping onto my back again.
I know what would solve this problem. A quick trip to the bathroom, five minutes tops, and I could release this tension. But jerking off would mean admitting that Sam has gotten to me, that she's worked her way into my bones, into every cell of my body.
It would mean admitting I find her attractive, which I absolutely do not.
Except for her eyes. Those wide, expressive eyes that look silver most of the time, but darken to steel gray depending on the light. And maybe her laugh, which isn't annoying at all when she's genuinely amused and not trying to impress anyone.
And okay, fine, her lips, which are full and soft and fit against mine like they were designed specifically for— "Stop thinking about it!" I growl, grabbing my pillow and pressing it over my face again.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?"
I need sleep. That's all. I need to sober up, get some rest, and in the morning, this will all seem less catastrophic. I'll figure out what to say to her, how to explain that the kiss was a mistake that will never, ever happen again.
I toss the pillow aside and close my eyes, taking deep breaths like Coach teaches us to do before big games. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm, focused, in control.
It lasts about thirty seconds before my traitorous brain conjures up the image of Sam's face just after I kissed her—flushed, eyes wide with wonder, lips slightly swollen. The soft moan that had escaped her lips earlier when my fingers had traced the curve of her spine—a sound that had made my pulse quicken then and, even now in memory, sent heat rushing through my veins, pooling low in my abdomen as I recalled the way her body had arched toward mine, seeking more.
My eyes fly open. "Goddammit!"
I roll over, then back again, then onto my stomach, then flip onto my back once more. The sheets twist around my legs, trapping me in a cotton straightjacket. The pillow is too flat, then too fluffy. The room is too hot, then too cold when I kick off the blankets.
My brain won't shut off, playing the kiss on repeat, adding new details each time—the scent of her perfume, something lavender and subtle; the softness of her hair when I threaded my fingers through it; the little sound she made in the back of her throat when I—
"Sheep!" I blurt out, desperate for any distraction. "I'll count sheep. That's what people do, right?"
I close my eyes, picturing a fence in a green field. One sheep jumps over. "One," I mutter. Another sheep follows. "Two." A third sheep approaches the fence. "Three."
But the fourth sheep isn't a sheep at all. It's Sam, wearing a fluffy white sweater and a mischievous smile.
"Get out of my sheep field!" I hiss, opening my eyes.
I try again, focusing harder this time. A sturdier fence. More athletic-looking sheep. "One... two... three... four..."
The fifth sheep stops at the fence, turns to look at me with Sam's polished sterling eyes, and winks.
"Oh, come on!" I sit up, punching my pillow into a different shape before lying back down. "This is ridiculous."
One more attempt. This time I picture a hockey rink instead of a field. Players in full gear jumping over the boards for a line change. "One... two... three..."
Player number four turns around, pulls off their helmet, and reveals Sam's face, flushed and grinning.
"For fuck's sake!" I groan, giving up on sleep entirely.
I stare at the ceiling, accepting my fate. I'm going to lie here all night, wide awake, tormented by thoughts of a kiss that should never have happened.
A kiss that felt right in a way nothing else ever has.
A kiss that I know, with absolute certainty, I'm going to want to repeat, no matter how many excuses I come up with, no matter how many times I tell myself I'm not attracted to Samantha Westbrook.
I'm so screwed.
Not literally, thankfully, but in every other sense of the word. Tomorrow, I'm going to have to face her. I'm going to have to come up with some explanation for why I kissed her, when I can't even explain it to myself.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part of all this?
I can't stop thinking about how much I want to kiss her again...
I thought I'd sober up when I woke up. That the morning would reset everything.
Yeah. No.
Instead of getting up and starting my day like a normal person, I'm flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, wide awake and very much still dealing with the aftermath of my own terrible decisions.
Downstairs, Sam's probably waiting, ready to corner me about last night's kiss.
Fuck. What was I thinking?
The memory loops on repeat – her lips, her little gasp, the way she whispered my name. I groan and roll over, burying my face in the pillow.
I'm not going down there. No way. She's gonna be all doe-eyed and clingy, asking what it meant, where we go from here. And I've got nothing to offer but the truth: I don't know why I did it. Temporary insanity. Too much beer. A full moon. Whatever excuse sounds better than the troubling reality – that for a moment, I actually wanted to.
My body betrays me as the memory sharpens. The way her lips felt against mine, soft and hesitant at first, then eager. The small, breathy moan when she said my name.
"Jesus," I mutter, feeling myself grow hard. I glare down at my treacherous dick. "Seriously? You can't be like this. We can't be like this."
I throw an arm over my eyes, trying to block out the memory, but it's like trying to hold smoke. Last night wasn't supposed to happen. None of it. Not the talking, not the laughing, and definitely not the kissing.
The worst part is that I actually enjoyed her company. Before the kiss, before I royally fucked everything up, sitting with Sam wasn't the torture session I'd expected. She was... easy to be around.
The way she giggled during that cheesy-as-hell movie, the dreamy look on her face during the romantic scenes that had me rolling my eyes. I found myself watching her more than the screen, amused by her reactions to my running commentary.
It was comfortable. Too comfortable. That's the problem.
Somewhere between making fun of the movie's dialogue and Sam asking about my family, I'd let my guard down. The beer had loosened my tongue, sure, but there was something else – something in the quiet way she listened, head tilted, eyes focused entirely on me.
Before I knew it, I was telling her things I never tell anyone. About my parents' divorce, about watching my dad crumble when my mom left, about my allergy to love and relationship.
It felt like putting down a weight I'd been carrying for years. I'd told her things I barely admit to myself, and instead of using it against me or trying to fix me, she'd just... accepted it. Accepted me.
That's the real danger of Samantha Westbrook. Not her crush, not her persistence, but this strange ability she has to make me feel understood. To make me want to tell her more. It's like she has some kind of superpower that bypasses all my defenses, drawing out emotions I've worked damn hard to keep buried.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "Elijah? You awake?"
I consider pretending to be asleep, but she probably heard me moving around.
"Yeah," I call back, my voice flatter than I intended.
"I made breakfast," she says. "And you should take your medicine."
I don't respond. What am I supposed to say? 'Thanks, but I'd rather starve than face you after last night'?
After a moment, I see her shadow shift beneath the door. She sighs–a small, resigned sound–and her footsteps retreat down the hallway.
I close my eyes again, ignoring the twinge of guilt. This is better. I'll just stay up here until... until when? Until she leaves? Until I figure out what the hell to say about last night?
My stomach growls, loud and insistent.
"Shit," I mutter, pressing my palm against my empty stomach. The hunger pain twists sharper, like it's punishing me for being a coward.
I sit up, running my hands through my hair. I need food. I need my meds. I need to face this situation head-on instead of hiding like some freshman after his first hookup.
But how the hell am I supposed to act normal? What's the protocol for morning-after behavior when there wasn't even a proper "night before"? Just a kiss that's got my head more screwed up than any girl has managed in years.
*****
SAM
I've spent exactly four hours, thirty-seven minutes, and an unknown number of seconds replaying the kiss in my head.
Capital T, capital K, because holy macaroni, it wasn't just any kiss. It was THE Kiss.
The one I've been waiting for since I was ten and realized that Eli wasn't just my brother's best friend but actually the love of my life. And now, after cooking enough food to feed a small country, I'm hovering between the kitchen and the staircase like some deranged breakfast fairy, waiting for him to emerge from his cave so I can figure out if last night changed everything or if I've just imagined the whole thing.
Sleep? Who needs it? Not this girl.
Not when I can lie awake kicking my feet in the air like a teenager writing in her diary about her first crush. Except I'm twenty, and this isn't my first crush—it's my only crush, spanning a decade of pining that would make Jane Austen proud. Every time I closed my eyes last night, I felt his lips on mine again, soft but insistent, tasting faintly of the beer.
The way his hands cradled my face like I was something precious. The little noise he made in the back of his throat that I'll be replaying in my head until I'm ninety.
The kitchen counter groans under the weight of my anxiety cooking. Pancakes stacked higher than my hopes. Bacon—both regular and turkey because I remember Eli once mentioned he likes both. Eggs three ways because I couldn't decide which he'd prefer this morning. Fresh fruit arranged in a pattern that took me thirty minutes and looks like I spent thirty seconds. And coffee. So much coffee. Partly to serve, partly to fuel my sleep-deprived body through this emotional marathon.
"You've lost it," I mutter to myself, rearranging the silverware for the fourteenth time. "Completely, utterly lost it."
But can you blame me? Ten years—ten years—of pining and suddenly last night, out of nowhere, he kissed me. ME. The girl who's been rejected so many times I should probably just forward my mail to the land of Not Happening, Samantha.
I grab a strawberry and chew it thoughtfully, leaning against the counter.
"Maybe it means nothing," says the annoying voice in my head. "Guys kiss girls all the time without it meaning anything."
"Not Eli," I argue out loud. "He's not like that. Besides," I continue my one-woman debate team, "in the old days, when a man kissed a woman, they were practically engaged."
The voice in my head actually snorts. Uh, hello? You're not living in 'the old days,' girly. You're in modern times where a kiss has become just a casual thing and most of the time doesn't mean anything anymore.
"But Eli and I are different," I insist, spreading my arms wide like I'm giving an impassioned speech to an invisible jury. "We have history. We have—"
What? Sexual tension that only you've noticed? A cosmic connection written in the stars that somehow only you can see?
I'm about to deliver a scathing rebuttal to myself when I hear it—footsteps. Upstairs. Moving toward the hallway. My heart launches into a gymnastics routine that would make Simone Biles jealous.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
I dash to the base of the stairs, then immediately wonder if that looks too eager. Should I casually lean against the wall? No, that's trying too hard to look casual. Should I pretend I was just passing by? But why would I be passing by the exact moment he comes downstairs after waiting all morning? Maybe I should run back to the kitchen and act surprised when he comes in?
While I'm having this rapid-fire crisis, my feet remain stubbornly planted, and then it's too late because there he is.
Eli, at the top of the stairs, looking like he just walked out of one of my most vivid daydreams. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the edges. He's wearing a simple gray t-shirt that hugs his hockey-toned shoulders and faded jeans that hang just right on his hips. There's a shadow of stubble on his jaw that makes my fingers itch to touch it.
Our eyes meet, and he freezes mid-step. I forget how to breathe.
Is the room spinning, or is that just the blood rushing to my head? I feel like I'm fourteen again, gangly and awkward, my heart too big for my chest. Except I'm not fourteen, I'm a grown woman who somehow turns into a human disaster whenever Eli looks at me like this—like he's really seeing me.
"Hi," I squeak.
My pulse is thundering so loudly I'm certain he can hear it from the top of the stairs.
"Sam," he says, and just my name in his mouth sends shivers racing down my spine. His voice is morning-rough, deeper than usual. "About last night—"
I unconsciously wet my lips, and his eyes definitely track the movement. The air between us feels charged, like right before lightning strikes. I want to race up those stairs and kiss him again. I want to ask him if he felt it too, that perfect alignment of souls that I've been waiting for a long time.
I want to tell him that one kiss from him is worth more than a lifetime of kisses from anyone else.
But I stay frozen, afraid that any movement, any word, might break whatever spell we're under. Ten years. Ten years of loving him, of being just his best friend's little sister, and now there's something new in the way he's looking at me. Something that makes my heart feel like it might burst from hope.
He takes another step down, opening his mouth to continue, when the front door flies open with all the subtlety of a cannon blast.
"HONEY, WE'RE HOME!" booms a voice that I recognize as Luke's, followed by the thundering of several pairs of hockey player feet and the thud of duffel bags hitting the floor.
The spell shatters like thin ice.
Eli's expression shutters closed so fast I almost get whiplash. Whatever he was about to say evaporates as his teammates pour into the foyer, their voices echoing off the walls. They're all grins and loud laughter, still riding the high of their win, completely oblivious to the moment they've just trampled.
I step back, making room as they crowd the entryway. Eli finishes descending the stairs, and I reach out, ready to snag his arm, to pull him aside and ask what he was going to say. But he moves past me like I'm not even there, like I'm just another piece of furniture in the house.
"Hey! There he is!" one of them calls out, and suddenly Eli is surrounded, receiving backslaps and fist bumps.
"How's the head, man?" asks Kentaro, doing some complicated handshake with Eli that they've probably been doing since they were rookies together.
"Good as new," Eli replies, his voice easy, casual. No trace of the intensity it held moments ago when he was saying my name.
"Thank god," says another teammate whose name I can never remember. "Peterson was a disaster filling in for you."
They laugh, and I stand there, invisible, the breakfast I spent hours making forgotten. The kiss we shared seemingly just as forgotten.
But then I spot a familiar face among the group—my brother, bringing up the rear with his duffel slung over his shoulder.
"Zach!" I cry, rushing forward to throw my arms around his neck. He catches me with a laugh, spinning me around once before setting me down.
"There's my favorite sister," he says, ruffling my hair like I'm still eight.
I swat his hand away, grinning despite myself. "I'm your only sister, doofus."
"Details, details." He squeezes my shoulder. "You should have seen the game, angel. I scored the winning goal in overtime."
"I did see it! On TV. You were amazing," I tell him, meaning it. "That slapshot was a thing of beauty."
"Something smells incredible," Cody interrupts, his nose lifting like a bloodhound. He peers around the corner into the kitchen and his eyes widen comically. "Holy shit! There's a feast in here! Is this for us?"
Before I can answer, the entire team is migrating toward the food, drawn by the siren call of post-game hunger. They crowd around the table, making appreciative noises as they take in the spread.
"This looks good," Kentaro says, already reaching for a plate.
"Did you cook all this?" my brother asks, looking impressed.
I nod, trying not to look at Eli, trying not to let everyone see that this breakfast wasn't for the team—it was for him. For us. For a conversation we'll now never have.
"Damn, sis. You didn't have to go all out just because we won," Zach says, ruffling my hair again.
"Yeah, well," I shrug, forcing a smile. "You know me. Any excuse to cook."
They descend on the food like locusts, passing plates and talking over each other about plays from the game. I stand back, watching them demolish hours of work in minutes. Hockey players are indeed ravenous monsters after a game, and any other time I'd find it endearing.
Now, though, I just feel hollow.
I can't help it—my eyes drift to Eli. He's standing slightly apart from the others, a plate in his hand but not eating yet. And he's looking at me.
For a brief, heart-stopping moment, our gazes lock again. There's something in his eyes—regret? Frustration? I can't tell. His expression is unreadable, his walls firmly back in place.