CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Too Much Denim
My hands tangle in Brooks' hair as our lips clash—desperate, unfiltered, and real. The seatbelt buckle jabs into my knee, but I barely register the pain. Not when he's peeling the cotton over my head. Not when his mouth finds mine again like he can't breathe without it.
The cab of his truck is dark and quiet, but inside, everything feels loud. My heartbeat, my breath, his touch.
His hands skim along the bare skin of my back, slow and reverent, like he's memorizing every inch.
I can't believe I kissed him in the hospital parking lot last night. And now? Now we're tangled up in each other on some dark back road, his hands steady and warm as they explore my skin. Every flick of his tongue against mine sends the world spinning.
I should be thinking this through. This is Brooks. Jasper's best friend. The most annoying person I've ever met.
But he’s also kissing me like it's the only thing keeping him alive and suddenly, I can't remember why I was protesting.
My hands slide up his torso, fingers brushing over muscle and feverish skin. We break apart just long enough for me to tug his shirt over his head, and then we're pressed together, skin on skin. It's electric. Real. Too real.
His stomach sticks to mine in the humid air as his hands grip my hips, pulling me closer. There's too much denim between us. Too many clothes. Too many reasons to stop. None of which I listen to.
I reach behind me, my fingers brushing the clasp of my bra.
"Wait," Brooks breathes against my lips, the word low and rough.
I still, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Even in the dark, they shine, safe and strong. The kind of look that makes my heart skip and my breath hitch.
"For what?" I whisper, resting my forehead gently against his.
He's quiet for a beat, then says, "Do you remember Fourth of July? The summer Jasper and I graduated?"
I nod slowly. "We went to the lake with everyone. I think I wore a red bikini."
Brooks expels a laugh. "A red string bikini," he corrects. "That day ruined me."
The air shifts, and play turns into confession.
I grin, brushing my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Why? Because of a swimsuit?"
"I was eighteen and you..." he groans, dropping his head back against the seat. "You were running around with that smile and no clue what you were doing to me."
"Oh my god." I start to laugh. "Is that why you stayed waist-deep in the lake until dark?"
He nods dramatically. "I couldn't walk to shore without humiliating myself."
I bite back a giggle, covering my mouth. "That is both hilarious and adorable."
"Adorable?" He raises a brow, then smirks. "It was agony."
I trace his jaw with my thumb, smiling at the memory. "Poor Brooks."
"Poor me?" he scoffs. "When I got home, I took a two-hour shower. Pretty sure I broke a personal record."
I gasp-laugh, shoving his shoulder. "You did not."
He leans in close, his breath hot on my cheek. "Elowen, you were in a string bikini, and I was in love with you."
My heart stutters. The playfulness fades into something weightier, something tender.
The air between us changes.
"L-love?" I stammer, the word catching in my throat.
Brooks grins, not cocky for once, just warm. "You know... in that clueless teenage boy kind of way. I didn't know what love was back then."
"And now?" I tease, trying to lighten the mood, even as something in me starts to spin.
He shrugs, brushing a strand of hair off my cheek. "I'm not sure I've figured it out completely. But if wanting to be around you all the time, wanting to make you laugh, wanting to be the person who shows up when no one else does, if that counts for anything."
I sigh, my fingertips trailing gently down his chest. "You had it bad, huh?"
He's quiet for a second. Then, his arms pull me in close, wrapping me in a way that feels more like a promise than a touch. His breath is soft against my ear when he whispers, "Still do, Ellie. I still do."
The words land somewhere deep. I don't know what to say. Or how to hold it. I'm used to being the one who leaves, not the one someone waits for. Not the one someone carries in their heart for this long.
But what if he doesn't really know me? Not the real me, just the idea of me that lives in his head? What if I disappoint him the second he realizes I'm not just this fierce girl from his childhood memories, but someone broken and messy and unsure?
And then there's my life in California. The one I'm going back to. The one I built. I'm not staying here forever. Does he know that?
But all of those thoughts vanish when his lips find mine again, and suddenly I'm not thinking at all. My fingers move on their own, sliding down between us, palming him through his shorts. He’s already hard, and it steals my breath.
"Do you... have a condom?" I manage to ask between kisses.
"Glovebox," he murmurs.
Just as I turn to reach for it, two glaring headlights sweep across the truck.
I freeze. "Uh oh."
Brooks groans and drops his head back against the seat. "I bet that's Russ."
"Russ Cartwright?" I duck, laughing under my breath. For a second, I feel seventeen again—caught and breathless. "Oh my God, I haven't heard that name in years."
"He's a cop now," Brooks mutters, already pulling his shirt back over his head. "Loves patrolling my favorite spots. Pretty sure he does it just to mess with me."
I shove my arms through the sleeves of my shirt, laughing under my breath as I climb into the passenger seat. "He always was weirdly obsessed with you."
Brooks rolls down the window as the police cruiser slows to a stop beside us.
"Isn't it past your curfew, Mercer?" Russ grins, leaning on the frame of his window.
"Didn't realize I had one," Brooks shoots back.
Russ tilts his head toward me. "And how's your lady friend doing?"
I lean over, resting my elbow on Brooks' arm to make sure Russ gets a clear view of my face. "Hi, Russ."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Ellie? What the hell? I thought you moved to Los Angeles."
"I'm visiting," I say vaguely. "Just for a little while."
Russ glances back at Brooks, and the gears in his brain clearly turn. "Wait, you're the new lady friend?"
I wrinkle my nose. "Hardly. Just one of his many, I'm sure."
Brooks scoffs, but doesn't argue. I kind of love that he doesn't argue.
Russ chuckles. "Well, word of warning. If I catch either of you in a compromising position, I'll have no choice but to write you up for indecent exposure."
I grin sweetly. "Duly noted."
He eyes Brooks. "I'm watching you. No funny business."
As he rolls away, Brooks slumps against the seat and exhales dramatically. "That man is an absolute mood killer."
I chuckle, breathless. "We should probably head home."
Brooks doesn't budge. Instead, he leans across the seat and kisses me again—slow, lazy, like he knows exactly what he's doing. I should stop him. I know that. But when his lips touch mine, I forget every reason why I shouldn't.
I sigh against him, letting myself fall back into his lap, the ache between my thighs flaring the second his hands land on my hips.
My whole body hums with need so loud it drowns out my thoughts but, somewhere inside me, a voice whispers caution.
He said he loved me. Still loves me. And I don't even know what I'm doing.
Whatever this is, it’s smudging every line I drew to keep myself safe
"We should—" I try, half-heartedly.
"No," Brooks protests, low and rough, as his fingers slip beneath my shirt and skim the bare skin of my waist. "Five more minutes."
And so, I cave. Again.
I melt into him, my chest pressed to his like it belongs there. Like it always has. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. All I know is, when his hands trace the curve of my back, I don't want to move.
Still, I manage to breathe out, "I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm going back to LA eventually."
Brooks pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his fingers threading through my hair. "I'm not."
I search his face, trying to decide if I believe him. If I can believe him. There's still so much we haven't said. So much I'm not ready to admit.
But for now, I take him at his word and let him kiss me again.
And again.
And then I let him take my shirt off.
His fingers skim my skin, soft and ardent as they press into the small of my back. He fumbles a little at the clasp of my bra, and I laugh against his mouth.
"I thought you had tons of practice with this kind of stuff," I tease, the sound breathy.
Brooks silences me with another kiss, catching my bottom lip between his teeth before sucking it gently. Then, his tongue traces a deliberate, teasing path before he lets it go.
"You make me nervous," he murmurs.
The words hit harder than I expect. My heart pounds faster. Something unravels in me. No one’s ever said that to me before.
Nervous. I make him nervous.
I should stop this right now. I should climb out of his lap, put my shirt back on, and draw the line we're blurring with every breath.
Brooks might have taken other girls down these back roads before, but this?
This isn't that. I'm not them, and he's not just some guy.
He's Brooks. Jasper's best friend. The one who couldn't get out of the lake on the Fourth of July because I wore a red bikini and ruined him for the entire day.
The one who broke up with Mitsy the second I called him out. The one who says I make him nervous.
So, when he finally unhooks my bra, carefully sliding the straps down my arms, I should be pulling away.
Instead, I breathe him in.
His lips stay on mine, slow and searching, while his hands explore—tentative, steady—as if he's asking permission with every brush of his fingers. It's been a long time since I've let anyone see me like this. Touch me like this. And even then, it never felt this... exposed. This real.
With Brooks, the warning bells are deafening, but I don't listen. I can't. Because with every kiss, every graze of his palm, I'm falling deeper. Not just into him, but into this thing we've been dancing around since the second I got home.
His hands close around my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples until they pebble beneath his touch, and I gasp into his mouth, my whole body arching toward him.
But just when I think he's going to give in, when I think we're both going to stop pretending that this is just heat and not something more, he pulls away with a long, ragged breath.
"Five minutes is up," he says quietly.
Disappointment punches the air from my lungs.
"We don't have to stop," I whisper, each word laced with ache.
Brooks leans in and kisses me again, slower this time, gentler. "There's no rush, Ellie."
And somehow, that wrecks me more than if he'd kept going.
"What if I don't want to stop, Brooks?" I whisper.
He nods, slow and serious. "I never said I wanted to."
But we should stop. Because this is Jasper's best friend. And he said he still feels things for me. Things I'm not sure I'm ready to dig into.
"It's been a long time since I've done something like this," he admits as he helps me back into my bra.
I look at him, really look at him. "Remind you of high school?"
He nods, amused. "You?"
I shrug. "Maybe."
When I'm back in the passenger's seat, he leans over and kisses me again. The kind of kiss that tells me this isn't just about lust. It's about everything that's been building between us, piece by piece.
He finally pulls away. "Let's get you home, Ellie."
I slump into the passenger seat, my hands still trembling. "Or," I tease, "we could wait five minutes and do that again."
Brooks casts me a wicked look. "Five more minutes and we would've needed that condom."
"Don't tempt me," I smile.
"Oh, Ellie," he groans as he starts the engine. "You're going to be the death of me."
I laugh, but inside, my heart stirs in a way I didn't expect. A part of me—the part I kept locked up tight for years—starts whispering that maybe I don't want to leave this place. Maybe I don't want to go back to my shiny, curated, far-away life.
Not anymore.
Maybe peace doesn’t feel like standing still.
It feels like him.