Chapter 15
Steph
“Oh. My. God. I swear he is the cutest thing!” Piper squeals as I push my way through the front door of the library. “I can’t wait to meet him. Promise me you’ll bring him in to visit me soon?”
“Piper,” I chide from the entry hall, barely resisting giving her a clichéd librarian’s shushing.
She’s usually the one encouraging patrons to keep their voices down, so this particular outburst is completely out of character for her.
I’m met with a curious silence, so I hurry to hang up my jacket by the door and make my way to the room on the right where her voice had originated.
Formerly a parlor in this Colonial-style home-turned-library, it now houses the circulation desk where Piper and I generally work side-by-side during the hours when our shifts overlap.
“Seriously,” I hiss, “What’s gotten into you? I could hear you squealing from outsi—”
My words cut off as I halt, frozen in the doorway, and take in the sight before me. Piper sits leaning over the desk, looking at something on none other than Riley Walker’s phone.
Riley’s.
Seriously.
Will I never escape this man?
He retracts the arm holding out his phone, and the pair of them straighten up in their chairs, Piper appearing instantly sheepish, as though caught doing something she shouldn’t. Riley, on the other hand, is grinning widely at me like I hadn’t just told him I hated him a week ago.
“Hi, Steph,” he says, getting slowly to his feet. His eyes rove over my body and, goddammit, I feel it like a physical touch. Shivers race down my spine, and heat rises to my face. “I brought you a matcha latte.”
He gestures towards the drink on the desk and casts a wink at Piper in the process. I don’t know what that’s about, but I shoot the little traitor a glare. She bites her lip and averts her gaze.
“No thanks,” I snap, though I could use some of Lucy’s liquid perfection right about now.
Piper’s head whips up at the bite in my voice, her eyes finding mine and silently begging for forgiveness.
I haven’t actually told her anything about my past with Riley, but she’s capable enough of reading between the lines to know it didn’t end well.
Holding her gaze, I tilt my head towards the stairs to the second level, silently asking if I can go deal with this.
She nods in understanding. Then, pressing my lips together on a firm nod, I spin around and stomp towards the steps knowing he’ll follow.
My hand grips the railing with white knuckles as I climb the stairs.
There’s a brief pause, and then I’m met with the sound of Riley’s heavy footsteps as he moves across the hall and ascends behind me.
He trails me down the second-floor hallway, my skin prickling under the heat of his stare.
I know he’s looking at my ass, I just know it.
Shoving open the last door on the left, I move into the archives room.
Once the primary bedroom, this space is now used to house historical town records.
Large metal floor-to-ceiling shelving units span the length of three walls, containing row after row of brown banker’s boxes full of old documents.
Though it’s only early fall, it’s much cooler up here.
The windows are old, and the insulation is nonexistent.
There’s nowhere to sit, but that doesn’t matter; we won’t be staying long.
Riley follows me into the room, correctly interpreting I want privacy and closing the door behind him.
I come to a stop in the far corner—as far away from him as I can get—taking a deep steadying breath before I turn to face him.
I cross my arms over my chest, both to ward off the chill and as a means of self-preservation.
“What the hell do you want, Riley?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“You,” he says, simply, and my eyes flare in incredulity, but also, in panic.
I take a retreating step, backing further into my corner.
I cannot let this man near me. I will not.
“Okay, okay, fine,” he raises his hands in an appeasing gesture, moving slowly as though attempting to calm a wild animal. The way my heart is banging around inside my chest, I certainly feel wild. “That might have been coming on a little strong,” he admits slowly.
“A little? No shit. You seem to have a problem with that.” The amount of swearing I do around this man …
He stares at me questioningly, though, so I add. “Aroma’s?”
Riley’s mouth tips up in a wry half-smile and he rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry about that, Sunshine.”
“You should be.” And don’t call me Sunshine. “Now tell me. What. Are. You. Doing here?”
“I just want to talk.”
I shake my head with a disbelieving chuckle. “I thought I made myself clear the other night. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Stay away from me.”
“Please, Steph,” he begs. And then, arms still raised, he takes a cautious step in my direction.
“No!” I shout, pointing for him to stop. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nowhere left for me to go. Once again, I find myself boxed in by him. How does this keep happening?
“Stay where you are,” I warn.
“If I stay here, will you listen?” He hits me with those achingly familiar grey eyes. So beautiful, so … vulnerable …
I suck in a sharp breath, feeling my resolve weakening. That’s how much power he still holds over me.
“I-I-I’m at work,” I finally stutter, feeling pretty exposed, myself, in this moment.
How? How does he do it?
He offers me a small smile, his face full of understanding, and I hate it. I hate that he still can read me so well. That he knows I’m softening with just one look. That he knows I’m fighting it … and failing.
“After work?” he suggests, taking another tentative step towards me. He pauses, then, watching me with hopeful eyes. Waiting to see what I’ll do.
I allow it.
God help me, I allow it.
“Will you meet me somewhere after work?” he repeats, but I’m already shaking my head.
“I can’t. My boys—” I start, then cut myself off.
“Right,” he says, nodding. Then again, to himself, “Right. You have two boys.”
Fuckity, fuck, fuck. I cannot let the conversation go in this direction. He needs to stay far, far away from my family life. Why did I bring up the boys?
Scrambling for a change of subject, I blurt, “What were you showing Piper before I came in?”
That seems to do the trick. I watch in awe as Riley’s face transforms from one of cautious hope to … a beaming smile.
He’s suddenly beaming, and it’s …
Gorgeous, I think, with a mental sigh.
It’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous.
And while I stand there taking in the wide curving grin, I can’t help but notice other details about him I hadn’t allowed myself to see or acknowledge the other night.
Like the strong cut of his jaw beneath his dark, shortly-trimmed beard—a beard that had felt surprisingly good against my skin when he’d kissed me.
And the width of his shoulders. Yep, those are pretty nice too.
He’s definitely added some bulk since his basketball days.
Despite being in peak athletic form back then, there’s no question he’s a grown man now; any lingering softness—the lankiness of his teen years—is long gone.
I’m loath to admit it, but he looks good. Really, good.
He’s wearing a black Henley, the fabric stretched enticingly across a broad chest where I can actually make out the valley between his pecs—for real.
And his sleeves are pushed up, revealing a hint of a tattoo on his left arm—one I suspect wraps the entirety of that side of his body, for it peeks similarly above his collar, spilling onto his neck.
I’ve never liked tattoos all that much before, and you better believe I threw a fit when Matty mentioned wanting one last year, but now I find myself wondering what exactly it is.
If it’s a combination of multiple designs, or one large one.
What could have been important enough for him to permanently mark his body, and can I peel off his shirt to trace the lines with my tongue?
Oh hell, where did that thought come from?
Is it getting hot in here?
Continuing my perusal, I travel my gaze over his torso, across what I have no doubt is a finely toned six-pack of abs, and down to where dark jeans fit snuggly around thick, muscular thighs. And between those thighs?
No.
Nope!
Not going there.
I don’t have to anyway because my memory’s remained pretty intact where that’s concerned. And, by that I mean, well …
I’m suddenly feeling very flushed, now, because you know what they say about ballers?
I swallow thickly.
Big hands. Ballers have big hands.
And you know what they say about big hands?
That’s correct. The same thing they say about big feet—and I don’t mean big gloves or big shoes.
So yeah, I don't need to go there. I remember it well. And fondly. But I’ll deny it.
Aw, crap. When did my clit start throbbing?
I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to avoid looking directly at his groin area.
“I got a dog,” Riley announces proudly.
Whaaa…?
I hadn’t been expecting that, and it succeeds in snapping me out of my hormone-induced and memory-fueled lust-haze.
“You … got a dog,” I repeat slowly, squeezing my thighs together against the uncomfortable wetness pooling there.
“Mm-hm. Cute little bugger, too.”
I’m instantly taken back to those days on the ridge when we used to fantasize about one day adopting a dog together. I look up into Riley’s face once more, to that smile, and I can’t help but offer him one of my own. His obvious glee over his new little friend is … well, it’s infectious.