Willow
FIFTEEN
By the time my shift ends, I’m ninety percent caffeine, ten percent spite, and held together entirely by muscle memory and sarcasm.
“Lock up,” Lara calls as I untie my apron.
“I always do.”
“You say that like I haven’t caught you leaving the back door open before.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three.”
“Allegedly.”
She snorts and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the quiet aftermath of the diner.
The buzz of the fridge. The faint smell of coffee soaked into everything.
My feet ache, my shoulders are tight, and I swear if one more person had asked for extra syrup, I might have snapped.
I grab my bag, a couple of beers from the fridge stashed inside, push the door open, and stop dead.
Is that…?
Yup. Leaning against the hood of his car like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Xander.
He’s not in a suit this time. Dark jeans. Black T-shirt. Sleeves pushed up just enough to show the tattoos curling down his arms.
He looks less polished. More dangerous.
“Seriously?”
He straightens when he sees me, like he’s been waiting. “You’re done?”
“That’s how closing a shift works, yes.”
His mouth shifts. “I thought we could go somewhere.”
I blink at him. “You thought?”
“Yes.”
“Did it occur to you that I might have other plans?”
“You don’t.”
I stare at him.
“Wow,” I say. “The confidence. Truly inspiring.”
“It’s not confidence,” he replies. “It’s observation.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
I step past him, because I refuse to stand here and let him derail my entire evening just by existing.
He falls into step beside me.
“I’m tired,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to see you.”
I stop. That isn’t what I expected.
“You’re not allowed to say things like that so casually.”
He smirks. “Why not?”
“Because normal people build up to that level of honesty.”
“I’m not interested in normal. So, why don’t you show me your favorite place.”
I blink again. “What?”
“In town,” he clarifies. “Where do you go when you want to be alone?”
“That’s a weirdly personal question.”
“And yet…”
I cross my arms. “Why do you want to go somewhere?”
He shoots me a playful wink. “You know I love hanging out with you.”
This man is going to be the reason I develop a permanent eye twitch. “You’re exhausting.”
“And you’re stalling.”
I glare at him. “Fine. But if this turns into you trying to impress me, I’m leaving.”
His gaze holds mine. “I’m not trying to impress you.”
“That would be a first.” I roll my eyes. “Come on. Before I change my mind.”
The lake’s quiet this time of night.
The sun’s dipping, turning everything gold and soft in a way that feels almost unfair. The dock stretches out over the water, old wood worn smooth from years of people sitting, talking, existing.
It’s my place, my reset button, and I’m already regretting bringing him here.
“This is it?” he asks, stepping up beside me.
“Yes.”
He looks around. Takes it in. “It’s peaceful.”
“That’s the point.”
I drop my bag and sit at the edge of the dock, boots thudding softly against the wood. He follows a second later, sitting close enough that I’m very aware of him.
Too aware.
I pull two beers out of my bag and hand him one.
“Peace offering,” I say.
He takes it. Our fingers brush.
“Thank you,” he says.
We sit there in silence. Just the sound of water lapping against the dock. The faint pulse of insects starting up for the night.
It’s nice, which is suspicious.
“You don’t seem like the lake type,” I say, eventually.
“What type do I seem like?”
“Expensive rooftop bars. Private clubs. Places where the drinks cost more than my rent.”
“I’ve been to those places.”
“I can imagine.”
“But they don’t do this.”
I glance at him. “This being?”
He gestures vaguely around us. “Quiet. Space. No one expecting anything.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the appeal.”
He takes a sip of his beer. Watches the water. “You listen to music out here?”
“Sometimes.”
He turners to face me. “What kind?”
“Depends on my mood.”
“And right now?”
“I like stuff that makes you feel something,” I say finally. “Not just noise. Not just polish for the sake of it. I like when it’s messy. When you can hear the person behind it.”
His gaze narrows. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Do you?” I challenge.
“I built a career on it.”
“And then walked away.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Shit, should I have said that? I don’t think speaking about his old rock star career was the best idea, judging by the cloud over his face now.
“Because it stopped being about the music,” he finally tells me. “I had to go.”
I frown. “That happens?”
“It always happens,” he says. “If you let it.”
“That’s kind of depressing.”
“It’s realistic.”
I study him. “You could’ve stayed. Tried to change it.”
“I did.”
“And?”
His jaw tightens. “It wasn’t enough.”
I nod, looking back at the water.
It’s hard to picture him in a band, up on a stage, a thousand people screaming his name. “You regret it?”
He finishes off nearly half his beer in a single swallow. “Regret? No. I miss it. Sometimes. But regret? That’s just nostalgia’s little lie. Besides, I like what I do now.”
“Standing still in a sleepy little town?”
He smirks. “Does it look like I’m standing still to you?”
I pick at the label on my beer, peeling if off in a spiral. “So, what’s the plan, Xander?”
He’s silent for a long beat. “There isn’t one.”
“Really?”
He glances at me sideways, jaw tense. “You ever just let something happen?”
I consider it. “Occasionally. Usually ends in disaster.”
“I wouldn’t mind a little disaster.”
“Okay.” I smirk. “So, let’s play a game.”
“What kind of game?”
“Strip rock paper scissors.”
He barks out a laugh, cut short like he missed the first joke and now he’s trying to catch up. “You’re kidding.”
I give him nothing. “Dead serious.”
He sets his beer down, knuckles white against amber glass. “Alright. But if I lose, I’m not walking back to my car naked.”
I peer at him. “You think you’ll lose?”
He lifts one dark brow. “You don’t strike me as the sort who loses on purpose.”
“Neither do you.”
He starts to roll up his sleeves even higher, like he needs a better range of motion for this cataclysmic showdown.
He holds out his fist. “You ready?”
Round one, I lose. Paper on rock.
I drag off my boots, chuck them with exaggerated petulance halfway down the dock.
The second round I win, scissors on paper, and he peels his shirt over his head with a shrug, like he’s undressing for a painting.
Tattoos: old, new, black, color, some faded to green.
The stitched seam of a surgery scar like a zipper up his bicep.
I want to ask about them all, but I want even more to run my tongue along every ridge.
The next round, we both go scissors, then both rock, then finally I go paper, him scissors, and I lose again.
Off with my shirt. My bra right behind it, because I don’t do things by half, and anyway, if I’m sitting here half-dressed at the dock, I might as well go all in.
He makes a sound, almost a growl, and that’s all the warning I get before his hand is at the back of my neck, pulling me in for a kiss that’s all heat and teeth and a month of unsaid things.
I kiss him back, because I want to see if he tastes the way he looks. Like dark, dangerous promises, spicy and sweet at the same time.
He does.
His hand cradles my jaw and I let him, because it’s easier than thinking. I can feel my skin, tight and electric. I can smell him. Clean sweat, the faint clove smoke, beer, and summer air.
I shiver even though the night’s thick and warm.
He breaks first, which surprises me. He does this little thing, forehead pressed to mine, eye contact like we’re already naked and he has nothing left to hide.
Then I’m laughing, because this is completely ridiculous. Sitting on a dock, shirtless, my bra somewhere in the reeds, drinking cheap beer with a man who once played stadiums but now can’t look at me without wanting to burn the whole town down.
I snort. “We’re idiots.”
He doesn’t argue. “That’s what makes it fun.”
“Should we go for a swim?” I ask, surprising myself.
He considers, head canted, smirk going lopsided. “You’re not afraid?”
“Of what?”
He jerks his chin at the glass black water. “What’s under there.”
I toss my hair. “Pretty sure nothing lurking in that lake is scarier than you.”
I steal a breath, push to my feet, and dash down the dock while kicking off the remainder of my clothing. Without looking back, I launch myself off the edge.
The water shocks me cold. Icy fingers wrapping around my skin, knocking the wind out of me. I surface in a gasp, hair plastered to my forehead.
A splash behind me, and he’s in, too. He catches me, arms curling around my waist like a lifeline. And then, without hesitation, he tilts my face up and kisses me again.
It’s messy and beautiful: water dripping, limbs tangled, the world stripped down to two heartbeats syncing. When we finally break apart, my lungs burn, my pulse races, and a smile so big it aches spreads across my face.
His hands slide up my body. My skin is slick and icy and alive; I’m more nerve ending than person now. I clutch at his shoulder, hard, and he grins against my cheek.
I hook my knee up around his thigh and find that I am, in fact, very ready for him to ruin me.
He kisses down to my neck as I link my hands behind his neck. We’re two slippery bodies thrashing against a current set only to each other’s pulse.
The lake’s chill is bracing, but everywhere his skin meets mine it scorches.
I tilt my head, let him taste the tender triangle by my jaw, and he groans, deep and hollow.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the word feathering across my shoulder. “Willow, you feel so fucking good.”
He nips my collarbone, tongues the water droplets there, and I almost combust. My fingers are in his hair, yanking.
I want his mouth everywhere, want to map every tattoo with my tongue, want to claw him open and see what comes out.
I feel his rock-hard cock twitching between my thighs, grinding against my pubic bone. I wrap my legs around his waist, pull him tighter, until all the space between us evaporates.