22. Chapter 22 #3
Bella shoved a marshmallow at Jake. Lila pulled out a blanket. Mike announced he was “building the perfect s’more” and everyone else was doing it wrong.
Sloane climbed onto a lounge chair, pulled up a book she clearly wasn’t reading, and whispered to Maddie (loudly), “So… are you like, his trauma wife or what?”
Maddie laughed. Actually laughed.
And for one second, Heath let himself believe they might just be okay.
* * * * *
The fire had burned down to embers, but Mike kept feeding it like it owed him rent.
It was full dark now—7:30, maybe 8. Heath had lost track. The kids were running sugar laps somewhere in the yard. Natalie was corralling snacks like she was preparing for siege warfare. Sloane had disappeared into her phone, probably texting someone named “KillMe.xo.”
Maddie hadn’t spoken to him since the phone call.
She was here. She laughed when Bella climbed on her. She helped Lila pour drinks. She nodded politely when Mike asked her something about solar panels.
But she hadn’t said a single word to him.
Which was fine.
Fine.
Totally normal to be losing your mind over a woman standing thirty feet away in cutoff shorts, hair down, drinking out of a plastic cup like she wasn’t actively haunting your blood.
Adam kicked at the fire pit with his boot and grunted. “So. You’re dating a civilian now.”
Heath didn’t look at him. “You say that like it’s a medical condition.”
“It is. You’re broken.”
“Thank you.”
Mike sipped his beer, leaned back in the lawn chair like a man who’d just hit max dad mode. “We talking about Maddie?”
Heath sighed. “Yeah.”
Adam threw a stick into the fire like it had offended him. “Is she your girlfriend or what?”
There was a long pause.
Heath scratched the back of his neck. “I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
“I mean, she’s here.”
“That’s not a relationship. That’s a kidnapping.”
“She’s staying voluntarily,” Heath muttered.
Mike raised his beer. “Honestly? I’m just impressed you haven’t emotionally imploded.”
Heath shrugged. “Give it time.”
Adam grunted. “I’m just saying. She’s hot. She’s smart. She’s clearly not into you right now. What did you do?”
Heath shot him a look. “Nothing.”
“You sure?” Adam asked. “Because she looked at you earlier like you left the toilet seat up and ran over her cat.”
Mike nodded solemnly. “That was some energy.”
Heath dragged a hand down his face. “There was a phone call.”
Adam and Mike exchanged the look—the one military guys save for when someone’s about to admit to something emotionally horrifying.
Adam grunted. “The ex?”
Heath just nodded.
Mike muttered, “Yikes,” into his Solo cup.
“She answered it,” Heath said.
Adam whistled. “Ballsy.”
“She said she wanted to know what he’d say.”
“And?” Mike asked.
“He threatened her. Said the divorce wasn’t happening. The usual narcissist power play bullshit.”
Mike stared into the fire. “Hate guys like that.”
Adam cracked his knuckles. “Want me to shoot him?”
“No,” Heath said.
“Just a leg wound. Something with plausible deniability.”
“I said no.”
“Okay,” Adam muttered. “But I’m keeping it on the table.”
They sat in silence for a while. The fire popped. A marshmallow stick snapped underfoot.
Maddie’s laugh drifted over from the patio—soft, polite, distant.
Heath felt it like a slap.
“She’s been quiet with me all night,” he said, voice low.
“She’s thinking,” Mike said.
“She’s deciding if you’re safe,” Adam added.
“She knows I’m safe.”
Adam looked at him. “You think safety is the only thing she needs?”
Heath didn’t answer.
Adam reached into the cooler, pulled out a beer, and offered it across the flames. “You’re already in deep. You gonna do something about it?”
“I don’t know if she wants me to.”
Mike stood up slowly. “Then you better figure it out before she gets tired of waiting.”
Heath took the beer.
Across the yard, Maddie was leaning against the deck railing, arms folded, legs bare, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She wasn’t looking at him.
But she knew he was looking at her.
He felt it in his bones.
Adam followed his gaze and muttered, “You’re so screwed.”
Heath didn’t deny it.
Because he was.
* * * * *
Maddie was drunk.
Not tipsy. Not flirty. Drunk.
The kind of drunk where your words start to slur, but your anger doesn’t. Where the warmth of the fire pit makes your skin too hot and your patience too thin. Where your ex’s voice still echoes in your skull, and your current almost-whatever-he-is won’t look you in the eye.
She tossed back the rest of her wine and stood.
Too fast.
The world tilted for a second, then corrected itself. She didn’t bother to steady. She let it sway. Let her body move the way her mind felt—off-kilter and untethered.
“I’m going inside,” she said, to no one in particular.
Someone—Natalie maybe—said something soft behind her, but Maddie didn’t register it. Didn’t care. She was already walking toward the house, feet bare in the cool grass, hair loose around her face, t-shirt clinging to her in the wrong places. She didn’t care about that either.
The sliding door closed with a soft thunk behind her. The house was quiet. Too quiet after the laughter outside.
She headed for the kitchen. The counter was cold against her hands when she leaned on it, breathing hard, like she’d just escaped something. Or maybe run into it headfirst.
She sloughed off her hoodie, throwing it on the counter.
And then, she heard him before she saw him.
Boots. Door. Silence.
Heath.
She didn’t turn around.
“Didn’t think you’d follow me,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have stormed off.”
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “I didn’t storm. I drifted.”
He didn’t say anything.
She turned slowly, leaning her hip against the counter, wine still pulsing through her bloodstream, her anger licking at the edges of it.
He was standing there, just inside the doorway. Shirt stretched over his chest like it was barely hanging on. Eyes dark. Jaw clenched. Tension carved into every inch of him.
God, he looked like sin made man. Like the worst decision she was ever going to make.
“You’re drunk,” he said finally.
She smirked. “Didn’t stop you from watching me like you wanted to eat me alive all night.”
“Maddie—”
“Say you haven’t been thinking about it,” she snapped. “Say you haven’t pictured it every goddamn time I bent over to pick up a goddamn marshmallow.”
His silence answered for him.
She pushed away from the counter, walking toward him. Loose. Reckless. Each step daring him to flinch.
He didn’t.
She stopped in front of him, looking up, wine and heat and weeks of tension burning in her blood.
“Still want to be the good guy?” she whispered. “Still want to walk away?”
He moved so fast she barely saw it—hands grabbing her waist, spinning her, lifting her up onto the counter like she weighed nothing. His mouth was on hers before she could take a breath.
It wasn’t sweet. It was wildfire.
Teeth. Tongue. His hand in her hair, tilting her head back to kiss her deeper, rougher. Her thighs spread to pull him in, and he stepped between them like he’d belonged there forever.
She gasped when his hand gripped the back of her neck, when his mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, biting just enough to make her gasp again.
“You shouldn’t want this,” he said into her skin.
She tugged at his shirt, fingers shaking. “Then make me forget why I do.”
He groaned—low and feral—and kissed her again, harder this time, pressing his body between her thighs until there was nothing left between them but heat and the trembling ache of too long denied.
His hands yanked down her shorts, fingers tracing the inside of her thigh, sliding under her underwear like he’d done it a thousand times in his mind. She hissed when his thumb found her, circling slow, patient, maddening.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered.
She whimpered. “That’s your fault.”
He pulled her panties off with one sharp tug, the sound tearing through the quiet like a promise. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her to the edge of the counter.
She helped him unbuckle his jeans—hands clumsy, desperate. That thick, heavy length she’d been trying not to think about for weeks now standing hard and ready between them.
He didn’t ask if she was sure.
He saw it in her eyes.
When he pushed inside her, she gasped—head falling back, hands gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles ached. He moved slowly at first, giving her time, letting her feel every inch of him.
Heath wasn’t gentle.
He was deliberate.
Every thrust hit deep, perfect, calculated to drive her wild. His hands held her steady, thumbs digging into her hips, keeping her in place as he moved—harder now, faster. The sound of skin against skin, of breath and broken moans, filled the kitchen.
Outside, laughter.
Inside, sin.
Her tee slid down one shoulder. His hand covered her mouth as she started to get too loud.
She bit his palm and he groaned, slamming into her harder.
“You want them to hear?” he growled. “You want my whole family to know how good I’m fucking you?”
She whimpered into his hand. Shook her head.
“Then be quiet, Maddie.”
She tried. God, she tried.
But when he shifted the angle—one arm under her knee, spreading her wider—she came with a cry she couldn’t swallow, body clenching around him like a vice.
He didn’t last long after that.
One more thrust. Another. And then he was coming too, buried deep inside her, forehead pressed to hers, panting like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.
Silence.
Only the soft sound of the fire crackling outside. A marshmallow popping.
He stayed inside her for one long, breathless moment. Then pulled out slowly, carefully, helping her back down from the edge with shaking hands.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t know how to.
Because something in her had cracked wide open. And now all the air was rushing in.
He backed up. Reached for a paper towel. Wordlessly cleaned her thighs. Tossed the wrapper in the trash.
She pulled her panties and shorts back on.
They didn’t look at each other.
Until the sliding door opened.