He chuckled. “I don’t know. But you look beautiful, just like always.”

My cheeks warmed. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And thanks for walking me home.” I giggled self-consciously, fussing with my hair. “I feel like I’m thirteen years old, saying that.”

He cocked his head. “Did I walk you home when you were thirteen?”

“Only in my dreams.” Immediately I clapped both hands over my flaming cheeks. “Oh my God. Forget I said that.”

He laughed. “Why?”

“Because it’s embarrassing! You’re not supposed to know about my hopeless teenage crush on you.” Jiminy Cricket, Cheyenne! Shut up, shut up, shut up!

“Well, I’m flattered. And I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

“What secret was that?”

“The one where I’m a mere mortal.”

“Oh. Right.” I mimed locking up my lips and throwing away the key.

Grinning, he took a few backward steps. “I’d have walked you home back then, if I’d known.”

“Liar.” But I grinned back, my heart ready to explode.

“‘Night, Cheyenne.”

“‘Night.” I watched as he turned and headed across the lawn, then I climbed the porch steps and let myself in the front door.

Upstairs, I put my pajamas on, washed my face, took my pill, and brushed my teeth before climbing beneath the covers in the same bed I’d slept in as a lovesick teenager, dreaming of the day the boy next door would finally look at me differently. Was it possible that day might still arrive?

Yesterday, I’d have said no way.

But tonight . . . tonight was making me wonder.

Three

Cole

After locking up the house, I went upstairs, got ready for bed, and slid beneath the covers. I was tired, but I was restless too.

Okay, hot and bothered.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Cheyenne. The way my body kept reacting to her. The things I’d told her. The undeniable temptation I’d felt to kiss her tonight—like three separate times.

I hadn’t walked a girl home in fifteen fucking years. I’d almost forgotten how good it felt to be a little protective of someone. To stand there at her door and wish I could mess around with her, but be gentleman enough to keep my hands to myself.

It hadn’t been easy.

Cheyenne stirred something up in me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Before I realized it, my hand had slid down inside my boxer briefs, my hard flesh slipping through my fist. I felt guilty about it, but I couldn’t resist. My cock was too hard and my muscles too tense, my blood too hot in my veins. I needed the release or I’d go crazy.

And hadn’t I known I would do it tonight? Hadn’t I locked my bedroom door? Hadn’t I been sitting there tonight at the pub, thinking about Cheyenne’s ass in her tight jeans, that white lace clinging to her perfect round breasts, the way she’d felt beneath me for those few, incredible seconds?

Stifling a groan, I worked myself harder and faster, imagining what it would be like to feel her lips on my mouth, on my chest, on my cock. To hear her murmur in appreciation as her hands swept over my shoulders and arms and abs. To see her skin shimmer in the dark as she writhed and arched beneath me. To hear the sharp gasps as I plunged inside her again and again, until our bodies reached the breaking point, and she cried out my name.

A few seconds later, my hand and stomach were a mess. After I’d mopped myself up with some tissues, I pulled on some sweatpants and went down the hall to the bathroom. Already, the shame was settling in, and I avoided looking at myself in the mirror as I flushed the tissues and washed my hands, scrubbing them as if I could undo what I’d done—or better yet, unthink what I’d thought while I was doing it.

Afterward, I went back to my room and got into bed again, pulling the covers to my waist. My body was more relaxed, but I still wasn’t sleepy enough to drift off. Instead, I lay with my hands behind my head, staring into the dark, trying to rationalize what I’d done.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad. After all, I hadn’t really broken the promise. And she wasn’t just Griffin’s little sister anymore. She was my friend too. She was someone I’d known more than half my life, someone I trusted. She loved my daughter, and she went out of her way to show it. She listened to me. She understood me. She didn’t try to tell me what I should do.

So no wonder, right? No wonder I was feeling something for her, something strong enough to cause a physical response. But it was over now. Out of my system.

Next time I saw her, it would be like it had never happened at all.

The following day, I woke up early like I usually did. Griffin and I normally ran together on Sunday mornings, but I didn’t think he was going to be in any shape for it today, so I got out of bed, pulled on running clothes, laced up my shoes, and set off alone.

The air was bracing—I could see my breath—and it took my muscles longer than usual to warm up. Generally, I was in good shape—I ran a few times a week, lifted weights, played baseball for the county men’s league in the summer and pickup hockey in the winter—but there were some mornings I felt my age creeping up on me.

I picked up the pace a little, lengthening my strides.

Maybe it was a mental thing. My mother wasn’t totally wrong about my feeling stuck—although she was wrong about how to fix it. I didn’t need a girlfriend to get out of this rut, I just needed a change of scenery.

As I finished up the second mile, I thought more about moving out of my mother’s house. We’d needed my mom’s help after losing Trisha so tragically and suddenly, but my plan had never been to stay in my childhood home forever. I’d just sort of grown accustomed to the way things were . . . my mom getting Mariah ready for school because I had to be at work by seven a.m.; meals on the table when I got home twelve hours later; laundry done, folded, and left in a basket at my bedroom door; the house always clean.

Not that I didn’t do my share—I did all the outdoor work, and because my mother was so fastidious, it involved constant mowing, edging, weeding, power-washing, bug-spraying, painting, and other repairs. I was also fairly handy inside the house and was usually able to fix anything that broke, and I took care of her car as well, bringing it to Griffin’s garage for service whenever it was necessary. Whenever I tried to give her money for rent or groceries, she always refused, telling me to put it toward Mariah’s college education fund instead. Once a month, Mariah and I took her out for dinner someplace nice as a gesture of thanks for taking such good care of us.

But it was time for us to move on.

I needed something to get excited about. A project. A place we could make our own. In the past, Mariah had sometimes struggled with change, but I’d involve her in the process every step of the way. She could have any room in the new house she wanted for her own. She could help me paint it. She could get the bunk beds she’d always wanted. I’d talk to the chief about my work schedule, see if there was any room for flexibility on my shift’s start time. We’d have fucking pancakes for dinner if we had to.