Chapter 9
Cami
His mouth is warm and commanding, movements slow but deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. Savoring me.
And God, if kissing him is this good, what’s it going to feel like when that mouth explores the rest of me?
My heart’s a war drum, thundering in my chest, my mind spinning, warning me to pull away—while everywhere he’s touched burns, begging me not to move.
It’s been over a year since I’ve let anyone touch me. Not even a kiss.
And now, with Knox, everything I told myself about needing a detox, about building walls, feels weak. Fragile. Never meant to withstand a kiss like his.
Hands cupping my face, Knox caresses me like he’s not ready to let go. Neither am I.
He eases back but only enough for our mouths to part, his forehead resting gently against mine.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since the night I walked you to your door,” he rasps, fingertips leaving a trail of goose bumps as his hands glide to my waist.
I swallow hard, my palms resting against his chest, solid and warm beneath my touch, the quick rhythm of his heartbeat mirroring my own.
“Honestly, I was starting to think you might never get around to it,” I breathe, nerves spiking through my words. “And for the record, I’ve been wanting it too, even if I kept telling myself I shouldn’t.”
His gaze holds mine, steady and astute, as though he’s searching between words I haven’t spoken.
“Whatever you’ve been through, whatever you’re still working through, I understand.” He drops a kiss to my forehead, tender and reassuring. “We don’t have to figure out any of this tonight. We’ll take whatever’s next slow. As slow as you need. You, me, those kittens…we’ve got the whole summer.”
His words settle over me like a weighted blanket—comfort you don’t realize is missing until it’s wrapped around you.
“Wait. Are you seriously trying to change the subject?” Paxton’s rant crackles through my cell phone speaker as I dig through my suitcase.
“I’m not changing the subject. I’m multitasking.”
“Oh, really? Because I heard a very convenient pause after I said his name.”
“You’re imagining things,” I lie, tugging a soft, coral-colored tank top over my head.
“You kissed him, didn’t you?” he insists, with zero chill. “Admit it. You kissed that Neighbor Guy.”
“Technically, that Neighbor Guy kissed me.” I shove my suitcase back in the closet, ignoring the flutter in my chest at the memory of Knox’s lips on mine. “And our first kiss was—”
“Hot?” he interrupts, his tone smug enough that I can picture the grin behind it.
“Scorching,” I tell him. “And also perfect. I forgot what a yummy make-out session even felt like.”
Paxton lets out a dramatic sigh. “Gosh, I hate you so much right now. My last suck-face was outside a Brooklyn dive bar. Guy was hella cute, but he tasted like menthols and mistakes.”
“Knox tasted like red wine and sin, so…” I trail off, smile tucked snugly inside my voice.
“And? What happened after?”
Memories unspool like ribbons caught in the wind. His mouth lingering on mine. His touch, electrifying. Even now, there’s this low thrum under my skin, like my whole body’s suspended in time.
“Well.” I clear my throat. “He got that glass of water he was headed for, kissed me on the cheek like a perfect gentleman, and said goodnight. Then, I fed Stripe and Shadow, crashed on his sofa, stared at the ceiling like a lovesick teenager, and came back here a little after sunrise.”
I leave out the part where I didn’t spiral. I simply let myself be happy. Progress that would make my therapist proud.
“Wait. Y’all tongue-wrestled and just called it a freaking night?”
“After agreeing to take things slow.”
“Slow.” Paxton draws out the word like he earns commission on single syllables. “Girl, please. Your year-long dry spell is ready to pack its bags for wherever celibacy goes to die.”
Of course, he went there. Paxton’s never had a filter, and he’s never needed one. He’s been calling my bullshit since braces and boy-band concerts, and somehow still knows exactly when I need it.
“We’ve got the next three months, Pax,” I say softly, mostly to remind myself.
“Then could there be a summer fling in the midst?” he teases, probably picturing a montage straight out of a 90s rom-com: slow-motion beach kisses, shared cotton candy at a carnival, and sunset make-outs in a borrowed hoodie.
“You deserve something fun, and I’ve been rooting for this since your naked meet-cute. ”
“That wasn’t really a meet-cute,” I say, fishing clean shorts from the wicker laundry basket.
“You’re right. That was foreplay,” he quips.
“Ha-ha-ha. Aren’t you funny?” I twist my hair into a loose bun. “We’re not going from sensual kiss straight to an X-rated sequel.”
“Bor-ring,” he singsongs, then huffs, as though I’ve canceled his favorite show mid-cliffhanger. “Anyway, are you headed next door now?”
“Yep. Gotta report for afternoon kitten duty.” I swipe on lip gloss, then walk into a light spritz of perfume.
“Well, hurry,” he chirps, clearly delighted. “And maybe wear that sundress you pretend isn’t hot.”
Here we go again. Him and that sundress.
He visited me in England one summer, and of course, I wore it when we went to Camden Market. Paxton swore I nearly caused a three-bike pileup and declared it a global distraction risk. He’s been holding that stupid dress over my head ever since.
“It’s breezy, not hot.”
“Your delusion is what’s breezy. That dress? Heatstroke. Be sure to update me later. I’m now living vicariously through you.” I hear typing on his end, followed by a sharp breath. “Crap, I’ve got a meeting I should’ve joined eleven minutes ago. Talk soon.”
He hangs up, and I slip my phone into my back pocket, heart humming to its own soundtrack as I bounce downstairs.
Celibacy may already be packing its bags, but fear has booked a return flight.
Late-afternoon sunshine blazes high and unapologetic, casting sharp shadows across warm sand as I make my way next door.
Each step sinks deeper, flip-flops scraping through dry grains that crunch before soft earth gives way beneath me.
A warm breeze carries salt and charcoal smoke curling from Knox’s deck, rich with the scent of grilled something I can’t quite name but suddenly crave.
I press a hand to my stomach, hoping to calm the nervous flutter taking flight there.
No luck.
Because this time, I’m not only checking in on kittens.
I’m walking straight into whatever this is between Knox and me, praying I don’t screw it up before I can even call us “complicated.”
Ugh. Why did one nasty relationship rewire me to always brace for impact, like disaster’s already in freefall, looking for a place to crash and burn?
A shriek of seagulls cuts through my thoughts, sudden and loud. I glance up as a flock wheels overhead, wings slicing the bright sky in a messy formation.
Even the damn birds have opinions about my trust issues.
Knox’s front door comes into view just past a cluster of salt-worn hydrangeas, their blooms faded but still standing tall against the briny air.
I climb the porch steps, nerves hitching with every one.
What if he’s rethinking our kiss already?
What if last night was just heat and timing and loneliness, and this afternoon he’s full of regret?
Hand hovering near the door, I pause, gathering the nerve to knock.
Inside, something filters through, low and melodic. Is he…singing?
Shoulders relaxed, I draw in a breath and knock twice, immediately second-guessing it.
Was my knock too soft?
Silence stretches long enough for panic to bloom.
Maybe he heard me and has chosen to ignore it.
Head lowered, I step back, ready to abort this whole plan and pretend I never walked over here—when the door swings open.
Knox stands there in a button-down and jeans, flip-flops, and a dish towel slung over one shoulder. And lord help me, he looks domestic and dangerous in ways that make breathing optional.
His hair’s tousled, and he smells like grilled food and clean skin. Ordinary things, made suddenly unforgettable.
“Hey”—his eyes flick over me, quick, but not subtle—“you’re right on time.”
I swallow hard, my brain stalling like it forgot I’m supposed to be playing cool.
“Kitten wrangler reporting for duty,” I manage, hoping that line sounds composed enough to cover how my overthinking nearly sent me sprinting back home.
His lips curve, teasing and deliberate. “Good. We’ve had a…situation.
My brows lift. “A situation?”
“They staged a protest. Refused to fall asleep unless their blanket was warmed in the dryer. Stripe cried like someone stole his inheritance.”
“Brats.”
“More like spoiled brats.” He chuckles, stepping aside so I can slip past. “Also, I might’ve promised them you were bringing snuggles.”
“Setting the bar pretty high.” I brush by him, surprised I pulled that off with sass, although the flutter in my chest tells a different story.
Knox’s eyes skate over me like he’s trying not to grin.
“I grilled something for lunch.” He gestures toward the deck. “Figured you might be hungry.”
“You cooked?” I tease, trailing behind him. He’s humming again, proof I did catch him singing.
“I cook when the mood hits.” He glances back with a smirk. “Or when there’s company worth feeding.”
I roll my eyes, but the flutter’s back. Stronger now.
The kitchen is warm, rich with the scent of smoke, spice, and something tangy that tightens my stomach in anticipation. A covered platter rests on the counter beside a bottle of sparkling water, two glasses already beading with condensation.
“Where’s the crew?” I turn slightly, thinking I might’ve walked right past them.
He opens a drawer and pulls out silverware. “Asleep. Didn’t make it halfway through the protest before they crashed.” A beat passes. “They’re on the deck. I ordered a playpen, and it came this morning. Got it all set up out there.” His eyes meet mine. “Thought we could eat outside?”