Adriane Leigh - Light in Mourning

“Why did you leave?” I blurted. Fuck! Why had I said that? I hadn’t meant to get into serious topics, hadn’t ever meant to get into the past with her. I wanted to leave all of that shit right where it belonged.

She coughed for a moment in surprise before setting the beer bottle down. “I . . . I don’t . . . it wasn't . . .” she stammered, looking for an explanation.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up. You don’t have to answer. It’s just something I’ve wondered about—if you knew you weren’t coming back. And then when I called and you never . . .” I trailed off and ripped my gaze from hers.

“It’s okay. I guess I owe you an explanation.” She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and began gnawing on the pink flesh fiercely. “I don’t want to rehash things that have already been said. It’s terrible, all of the decisions I made during the summer. I have so many regrets.”

Regrets.

There was that word. We’d promised each other no regrets, so was she telling me she regretted me? All of it? Because I sure as hell didn't. She was the last thing I regretted. I regretted I’d tried my stupid caveman way of forgetting her by fucking other girls and flaunting it. I regretted it so much the bile rose in my throat at the memory of the pain etched across her face.

But, her? I didn’t regret her.

And if she told me she regretted me, I didn’t know what I would do. But I knew it would include a bottle of scotch.

“I think I wanted to come back. I left a piece of myself here. The biggest piece. I left me here. But when I got back to DC, I just . . . was consumed by Kyle. He’s like that; takes over my whole world . . . we always go back to each other.”

“Is this time different?” I asked her point-blank. I had to know.

Her brows furrowed as she took in my words. “Yes,” she said. I watched for any indication that she didn’t believe what she was saying. I didn’t see any. She looked determined. Her jaw set, her eyes hard.

“Do you think that means something for us?” I didn’t want to ask it, but I wanted it answered. I was trying not to lay my cards on the table, but that’s who I am. I don’t pull bullshit. I don’t play games. I’m straightforward and what I needed at that moment was to know what she was thinking about us.

“Tristan,” she murmured, her eyes downcast, still chewing on her lip.

“Sorry, don’t answer. I didn’t mean to get into all of this. I’m just here for dinner.” I shot her my best reassuring smile, but it didn’t seem to help. She was still lost in thought, playing with the label on her beer bottle.

“Hey.” I scooted closer to her on the couch and rested my palm on her knee. Her eyes darted up to meet mine, emotions swirling, unanswered questions burning. I ran my thumb along the soft fabric of her leggings and watched her breathing pick up, her chest heaving as her lips parted and she inhaled deeply.

“I want us . . . I want to be . . .” She hardened the set of her jaw and glanced away from me.

She wants what?

She wants us to be friends?

Fuck, please don’t let her say she just wants to be friends. I glanced at Charlie and mentally willed him to prepare for a hasty exit, but his old brown eyes refused to meet mine. Distracted fucker. Give him a bone and he’s rendered useless. Fuck him. I’ll leave him. If she says she just wants to be friends, I’m out the door in a flash, no turning back.

“I want you, but more than that, I want to take it slow,” she said on a rush of breath. I was so lost in my thoughts it took a moment for my brain to register her words.

She wants me.

Holy fuck, Georgia wants me.

The one thing I’d been desperate for her to say all summer and she’d just said it.

I heaved a giant sigh and the anxiety that had settled in my chest eased. I clenched my eyes tightly and ran my palm over my face.

“I . . . do you not want that?” she squeaked. I scrubbed my palm across my face and then met her eyes, a grin breaking out across my mouth. I was so fucking relieved. A weight had lifted from my shoulders.

“I can give you slow, Georgia. I don’t know if I can give you space, because the last five days have been torture having you right here and not seeing you, but I’ll give you slow. Just don’t ask me to stay away.” I leaned into her, fisted one hand in her thick hair and pulled her lips to mine. I claimed her in a fierce kiss—strong, confident, quick—and then pulled away again.

Her eyes were wide with shock. Her breath came out in quick pants.

She was so fucking turned on it was evident by that hooded look in her eyes, her chest rising and falling, the way she shifted her legs. Fuck yes, I had her. I could work with this. If she wanted it slow, we could take it slow, but that didn’t mean I was not going to torture her every step of the way. I threw her a lopsided grin and then lifted the beer bottle to my lips, swallowing the cold liquid and watching her fuss with her hair and averting her eyes from mine. Georgia was mine, whether she knew it or not. This was our new beginning.

A few weeks into taking it slow and things were perfect, or as perfect as they could be without having her in my bed every night. But nearly just as good was seeing her beautiful smile over dinner each night and having coffee together every morning, just like we had every day last summer.

That night after we, or she, had decided to take it slow, she'd insisted on getting a tour of my cottage. So much had happened to us there. One night at the end of the dock in the sand, and it had changed my world forever. Yet she’d never been inside the place. So I held her hand as we wandered down the beach, Charlie trotting happily in front of us.

We walked up the boardwalk and avoided the uncomfortable silence that stretched between us when we passed the end where we’d shared our first moment this past summer. I laid my hand on her back when she stepped over the threshold, being the perfect gentleman I thought I was, and then she busted down into a fit of giggles. She'd finally admitted there was no way she was taking another step into this house until it had a fresh coat of paint and some fixing up.

Two weeks later, she was putting me to work. Saturday morning, bright and early, I was near salivating as she was tramping through my door: hair in a messy knot on the top of her head, yoga pants hugging the curve of her ass perfectly, and paint rollers in hand. She’d sent me to pick up cans of paint the night before and, because I had zero concern for style, I’d let her pick out the paint color.

She'd insisted it be a surprise.

And was it ever when I lifted the lid. “This is pink.” I narrowed my eyes.

“It’s not pink. It’s salmon.” She grinned as she set up the paint trays.

“Not putting pink on my walls.”

“Salmon, and you are. I seem to recall you relinquishing control of this decision.” She arched an eyebrow at me.

“There was an unspoken understanding there would be no pink.”

“Salmon.” She stood, hands on her hips, and faced me.

“Fucking pink. And it’s not going on my walls.”

She shot me a nasty look before stepping closer. We stood head to head and determination flared in her eyes. It was so fucking hot, I had to adjust myself. Fuck discretion. Her eyes flickered down at the movement before her gaze met mine again, a smirk playing on her lips.

She leaned in close to me, one hand threading in my hair, her lips dusting along my jaw, her breath whispering in my ear. “It’s salmon, and if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to help me lay it on your walls.” She gave a tug before turning and bending over to pour paint in the tray.