“That’s also a secret,” I say. “I haven’t even told my father yet.”

His expression is solemn. “How’d she die?”

“Overdose. I found her when I got home from work.”

“I’m sorry,” he says with sincerity. “Are you okay?”

I lift a shoulder in uncertainty, and when I do, it feels like some of those feelings that forced me into tears on the balcony attempt to seep back in. I wasn’t prepared to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about it, honestly. It’s not really fair that I don’t know how to not answer his questions, but he doesn’t open up about anything.

I feel like a waterfall around him, just spilling myself and my secrets out all over the floor.

Samson’s expression turns empathetic when he sees my eyes rim with tears.

He pushes off the counter and begins to walk toward me, but I stand up straight and immediately shake my head. I press a hand against his chest, stopping him from touching me.

“Don’t. Don’t hug me. It’ll just feel patronizing now that you know I’ve never been hugged like that.”

Samson shakes his head gently as he stares down at me. “I wasn’t going to hug you, Beyah,” he whispers. His face is so close to mine, his breath grazes my cheek when he speaks. I feel like I’m about to slide to the floor, so I grip the edge of the counter behind me.

He dips his head until his lips catch mine. His mouth is soft, like an apology, and I accept it.

His tongue coaxes my mouth open and I welcome him by fisting both of my hands in his hair, pulling him even closer. Our chests meet and our tongues slide against each other, wet and warm and soft.

I want this kiss, even if it’s only happening because he’s drawn to sad things.

He tugs me away from the counter and into him, and then in one swift move, he lifts me and I’m sitting on his island and he’s standing between my legs. His left hand slides down my leg until his fingers are brushing my outer thigh.

I’m full of things I’m not usually filled with. Warmth and electricity and light.

It scares me.

His kiss scares me.

I’m not impenetrable against his mouth. I’m vulnerable, and I feel my guard lowering. I’d give him all my secrets right now and that isn’t me. His kiss is potent enough to turn me into a girl I don’t recognize. I love it and I loathe it.

As much as I try to remain focused on what’s happening between us, it’s hard for the image of what happened between him and Cadence not to flash through my head. I don’t want to be just another girl he kisses on his kitchen island.

I’m not sure I can handle being a throwaway to Samson like I was with Dakota. I’d rather not be kissed at all than allow that to happen again, only to look out my bedroom window tomorrow night and see someone else in this same spot, feeling the same things he’s making me feel right now.

The same things Dakota made me feel right before he pulled away and ruined the next few years of my life with one gesture.

God, what if Samson pulls away and looks at me like Dakota looked at me that first night in his truck?

The thought makes me nauseous.

I need air. Fresh air. Not air from his lungs or this sterile house.

I end the kiss abruptly, without warning. I push against Samson and slide off the island, leaving him confused. I avoid his eyes as I walk straight for his door. I go outside and grip the balcony railing, gasping for air.

I’ve been through enough in my life that I don’t want a guy to change the things I like about myself the most. I’ve always been proud of my impenetrable resolve, but he somehow infiltrates me like I’m full of holes. Dakota never reached this far inside of me.

I hear Samson walk outside. I don’t turn around to face him. I just inhale another deep breath and then close my eyes. I can feel him next to me, though. Quiet, brooding, sexy, secretive—all my favorite ingredients in a guy, apparently. Why did I stop the kiss, then?

I think maybe Dakota ruined me.

When I open my eyes, Samson’s back is against the railing. He’s staring down at his feet.

Our eyes meet and it’s like I can see my own fears looking back at me. We don’t break our gaze. I’ve never stared at someone without speaking as much as I’ve looked at him. We do a lot of looking and not much talking, but they both feel equally productive. Or unproductive. I don’t even know what to think of what’s been developing between us. Some moments, it feels like something huge and important, and other times it feels like less than nothing.

“That was a really bad moment to choose to kiss you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I think a lot of people might agree with him, that kissing a girl right after—or because—she tells you her mother died might be poor timing.

Maybe I’m fucked up, but I thought it was perfect timing. Until it wasn’t.

“That’s not why I came outside.”

“What is it, then?”

I blow out a quiet rush of air while I work out how to answer that. I don’t want to bring up how I fear that deep down, he’s no better than Dakota. I don’t want to bring up Cadence, or the fact that he’s only with girls who are here for the weekend. He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m the one who showed up at his front door wanting this to happen.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to answer that.”

He turns around until we’re both leaning over the railing. He picks at a piece of chipped paint, pulling at it until it reveals an inch of bare wood. He flicks the chipped paint over the railing and we watch as it flutters to the ground.

“My mother died when I was five,” he says. “We were swimming about half a mile from here when she got caught in a rip current. By the time they pulled her out of the water, it was too late.”

He glances at me, probably to gauge my reaction. But he’s not the only one who can hide his emotions well.

I get the feeling he hasn’t told a lot of people that. A secret for a secret. Maybe that’s how this will go. Maybe that’s how Samson’s layers are peeled back—by peeling my own layers back first.

“I hate that for you,” I whisper. I keep my arms folded over the railing, but I lean slightly toward him. I press my mouth against his shoulder. I kiss him there, just like he did me in the water.

When I pull away, he lifts a hand to the side of my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, but then he dips his head to try to kiss me again and I immediately pull away from him.

I wince because I’m embarrassed by my own indecisiveness.

He pushes off the railing and runs a hand through his hair, and then looks at me for guidance. I know I’m throwing all kinds of mixed signals his way, but it’s a reflection of what’s going on inside of me. I feel stirred up and confused, like my current feelings and past experiences were just thrown together in a blender and turned on high.

“I’m sorry,” I say, frustrated with myself. “I haven’t had the best experience with guys so I just feel…”

“Hesitant?” he suggests.

I nod. “Yeah. And confused.”

He begins picking at the same spot on the wood. “What’s been your experience with guys?”

I laugh half-heartedly. “Guys is overshooting it. There was only one.”