Chapter Thirty-Three
Breaking Point
Crew
“So.”
Foster hands me a beer and settles into the Adirondack chair next to mine. The fire has burned down to embers, Sadie and Emmie disappeared inside twenty minutes ago, and the night has gone quiet except for the crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
“So,” I echo.
“Nice cabin.”
“Thanks.”
“Nice night.”
“Yep.”
“Nice girl in there who’s clearly still in love with you.”
I take a long pull of my beer. “Foster.”
“What? I’m just making observations. It’s what I’m trained to do.”
“You’re trained to investigate federal crimes, not my love life.”
“Your love life is a federal crime. A crime against yourself.” He stretches his legs out toward the dying fire. “When are you going to tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
Foster gives me a look. The look. The one he’s been giving me for months, every time Emmie’s name comes up, every time I deflect a question about why I look like I haven’t slept in weeks.
“That you’re in love with her.”
“I’m not—”
“You built her a kitchen.”
“I built me a kitchen.”
“You built a kitchen with a giant window over the sink. You put in a six-burner range when you eat the same four meals on rotation.” He shakes his head. “That kitchen is for her.”
I stare into the embers, jaw tight.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” I say finally. “I ended things. She’s moved on.”
“Has she? Because I didn’t see her bringing a date this weekend.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And I didn’t see her looking at anyone else the way she looks at you.”
“She doesn’t look at me any particular way.”
“Dude.” Foster laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “She tracked you across the yard for a solid fifteen minutes while you were splitting wood. I thought she was going to combust.”
I don’t respond. Can’t respond. Because I noticed it too—the weight of her gaze on my back, the way she quickly looked away whenever I turned around. I told myself I was imagining it. Told myself it was wishful thinking.
“Just talk to her,” Foster says. “Tell her the truth. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“She could say no.”
“And what’s happening right now? You’re miserable. She’s miserable. You’re living in the same apartment, circling each other like wounded animals. How is that better than taking a shot?”
I set down my beer harder than necessary. “You done?”
“For now.” He stands, clapping me on the shoulder. “But think about it. This weekend, this place—it could be a fresh start. If you let it.”
He goes inside, leaving me alone with the fire and the stars and the unbearable weight of everything I’m not saying.
* * *
I don’t sleep.
The air mattress is comfortable enough—I’ve slept on worse, and the cabin maintains temperature well now that I’ve sealed all the gaps.
But every time I close my eyes, I see her.
The way she looked in the firelight. The genuine awe on her face during the tour.
The soft “you should be proud” that hit me somewhere I didn’t know I could still feel.
Around 4 AM, I give up and go outside to watch the sunrise.
By the time the others wake up, I’ve already made coffee, started breakfast, and run three miles through the woods to burn off the restless energy crawling under my skin.
It didn’t help.
“Morning!” Emmie emerges onto the porch, stretching, her hair still mussed from sleep. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized t-shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder.
I look away. “Coffee’s ready.”
“You’re an angel.”
I’m not. I’m a man hanging on by a thread. But I pour her a cup anyway and try not to notice the way she wraps her hands around it, the way she hums with pleasure at the first sip.
“I was thinking,” she says. “You mentioned there’s a lake nearby. We should hike out there today. See it.”
“It’s about a mile. The trail’s a little rough.”
“I can handle rough.”
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her handling anything rough.
“Sure,” I manage. “After breakfast.”
The hike is torture.
Not the physical part—the trail is easy enough, winding through a pine forest with occasional glimpses of the creek below. The weather is perfect, cool and crisp, the kind of morning that makes you feel alive.
The torture is Emmie.
She’s wearing leggings today. Leggings that fit her like they were painted on, hugging every curve as she climbs over rocks and navigates tree roots.
I’m walking behind her.
I’m dying.
“You okay back there?” She glances over her shoulder, catching me staring. I jerk my gaze up to her face.
“Fine. Just watching the trail.”
“Uh-huh.” There’s a knowing glint in her eye that suggests I’m not as subtle as I think I am. “The lake’s close, right?”
“Another quarter mile.”
She turns back around, and my eyes drop immediately to the sway of her hips. The curve of her ass in black spandex.
Get it together, Jensen.
I’ve faced down armed suspects with more composure than this. I’ve held my position under fire, maintained operational discipline in situations that would break most people. And here I am, coming unglued because a woman I see every day is walking in front of me in leggings.
Not just any woman. Emmie.
The woman I’ve been trying not to want for months. The woman I pushed away because I thought it was the right thing to do. The woman who, despite everything, still looks at me like I might be worth something.
I can’t take much more of this.
Something’s going to break. Either my self-control or my sanity, and at this point, I’m not sure which one I’d rather lose.
“Oh, wow.” Emmie stops at the crest of the hill, and I nearly walk into her. “Crew, look at this.”
The lake spreads out below us, glass-smooth and reflecting the morning sky.
A small dock juts out from the shore—weathered but solid, probably original to the property.
The trees crowd right up to the water’s edge, gold and orange and deep green, and the whole scene looks like something from a painting.
“This is yours?” she breathes.
“Technically, yeah. The property line extends to the water.”
“It’s beautiful.”
You’re beautiful, I don’t say. You’re beautiful, and I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I don’t want you.
“Come on.” I start down the slope. “There’s a spot by the dock where you can see the whole thing.”
We pick our way down the hillside, Foster and Sadie trailing behind us, their voices a distant murmur. The trail gets steeper near the water, the ground carpeted with fallen leaves that hide the rocks beneath.
“Careful here,” I warn. “It’s slipp—”
Emmie’s foot goes out from under her.
I react on instinct—years of training taking over before my brain catches up. My arm shoots out, catching her around the waist, pulling her back against my chest before she can fall.
She gasps. Her hands grip my forearm. And suddenly, we’re frozen there, her back pressed to my front, my arm wrapped around her, both of us breathing hard.
“You okay?” My voice comes out rough.
“Yeah. Yeah, I—” She doesn’t move. Neither do I. “Thanks. That would have been a bad fall.”
“Looked like it.”
I should let go. I should step back, make sure she’s steady, continue down the trail like nothing happened.
I don’t.
She’s warm against me. I can smell her shampoo—coconut, I think—and feel the rapid beat of her pulse where my arm crosses her chest. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to.
“Crew.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“You can let go now.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to?”
No. Never. I never want to let go of you again.
“Hey, you guys okay down there?” Foster’s voice echoes from above us.
The spell breaks. I release her, stepping back so fast I nearly lose my own footing.
“Fine,” I call back. “Just a slippery patch. Be careful.”
Emmie doesn’t look at me as we continue down to the dock. But I notice the flush on her cheeks. The way her hands are trembling slightly.
I did that.
The thought should worry me. Instead, it sends a surge of something primal through my veins.
She still feels it too.
We spend an hour at the lake.
Foster and Sadie skip rocks. Emmie takes photos on her phone—the water, the trees, the dock. I sit on the shore and try to remember how to breathe normally.
The hike back is quieter. Emmie walks with Sadie this time, their heads bent together in conversation I can’t hear. Probably for the best. I need the distance to get my head straight.
It doesn’t work.
Back at the cabin, we fall into an easy rhythm. Sadie and Foster claim the Adirondack chairs on the porch. Emmie disappears into the kitchen to start on lunch. I busy myself splitting more wood, even though we have plenty.
Swing. Hit. Swing. Hit.
She still feels it too.
Swing. Hit.
You could tell her. You could just—
“Crew?” I turn. Emmie’s standing on the porch, hugging herself despite the warm temps today.
“Lunch is almost ready. But I, um—” She hesitates. “Can you help me move the dresser real quick? I dropped an earring behind it, and I can’t reach.”
“Sure.”
I set down the axe and follow her inside, hyperaware of every step, every breath. The bedroom is small—just enough space for the queen bed and a dresser—and when I move to the heavy oak piece, she doesn’t leave.
“Which side?”
“The right. It fell in the corner.”
I grip the edge of the dresser and pull it away from the wall, the legs scraping against the refinished floor. She squeezes into the gap, crouching down, searching.
“I see it—hang on—” A second later, she rises to her feet, the earring clutched in her fingers. “Got it,” she breathes.
But neither of us moves.
I’m caging her in.
Her back against the dresser, me in front of her. The smell of coconut and something sweet.
“Crew.” Her voice is unsteady.
“Emmie.”
“This is—we should—”
“I know.”
She takes a step forward, and now we’re face to face in the narrow space between the dresser and the wall. Inches apart.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I hear myself say.
“Do what?”
“This. Pretending. Acting like I don’t—” I exhale sharply. “Every time I see you, I want things I have no right to want. Every time you walk away, I have to stop myself from following. I ended us because I thought it was the right thing, but it’s killing me, Emmie. You’re killing me.”
It’s possibly the most words she’s ever heard me say. And somehow, I’m not done.
“Crew—”
“I know I’m not what you want. I know I can’t give you normal. And if you tell me to walk away right now, I will.” My hands are shaking. “Just say the word, and I’ll go, and we never have to talk about this again.”
Silence.
The longest silence of my life.
And then Emmie reaches up, cups my face in her hands, and pulls me down to her.
The kiss starts soft. Tentative. Like a question.
And when I don’t pull away, she answers—pressing closer, her hands sliding up my chest to rest over my heart. I wonder if she can feel how fast it’s beating. I wonder if she knows she’s the reason.
She kisses me again, and I forget every reason I had for staying away.
My brain—usually so loud, so insistent—goes completely silent.
There’s just her. The warmth of her mouth.
The small sound she makes when I finally, finally kiss her back.
It’s the quietest moment of my life and the loudest. Human Xanax.
“Don’t walk away,” she breathes between kisses. “Don’t you dare walk away.”
“Never.” I press my forehead to hers, both of us trembling. “Not again. I promise.”
“You broke my heart, you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Good.” She kisses me again, softer this time. “You have a lot of making up to do.”
“Tell me how. I’ll do anything.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, and what I see in her eyes makes my chest crack open.
Despite everything I put her through.
“Just don’t leave,” she whispers. “Don’t shut me out again. Even when it gets hard. Even when your brain tells you to run.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She smiles—that bright, beautiful smile I’ve been missing for months—and pulls me back down to her.
When we finally step out of the bedroom—flushed, disheveled, her hand in mine—Foster takes one look at us and whoops.
“About damn time!”
Sadie just grins. “I expect to be maid of honor. Non-negotiable.”
But I don’t care. Let them celebrate. Let the whole world know.
I’m done running.
I’m done being scared.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.