As I lead him to the bedroom, my hand in his, highly aware of his proximity, his touch, I realize I’ve never gone down this road before—allowed myself the comfort of just sleeping next to someone, trusting them. Not with a guy. I’d have been out the door so fast, he’d have serious whiplash. But with Boone, it’s different. I know he’s not asking for anything I can’t give.
He’s not trying to save me in a way that selfishly satisfies a need for him. He’s not coveting me, desiring me sexually, though there may be some of that…but he’s not trying to change me overall. He wants me sober, sure. Because he thinks I’ll be happier for it—not because it’s an ultimatum.
Honestly, I really don’t know why he chose me—why I’m the girl who stood out from the rest, who he couldn’t walk away from. Why he felt Hunter’s birthday would be better dealt with in my company over anyone else’s.
With that realization, an enormous vise of guilt squeezes my chest. Wraps around me so tightly, I struggle to breathe. The fire swirling my stomach from the vodka travels my bloodstream, igniting my veins, my limbs. My face is flush, and a hollowed out pit opens up inside me.
“Lay down beside me,” Boone says, his voice distant, beckoning.
My heart aches, and I can’t deny him his request. I slip onto the bed and rest my head on the pillow, his right beside mine. His eyes trace the features of my face, his lids blinking closed, heavy with alcohol.
I don’t want to acknowledge my own pain; the reminder of Dar on Hunter’s birthday. Two people stolen from us, from life. But it’s too deep a connection. Something I can’t toss off as a life lesson. Having lived and learned.
Boone’s hand reaches up and his fingers slowly graze my cheek, then my forehead, pushing my bangs away from my eyes. He slips my hair behind my ear, rests his hand on my face. His palm warm and calloused. The friction spikes my blood, a craving for him so deep. To keep touching me.
Against my better judgment—and I will so blame the vodka later—I lean into him and press my lips to his.
For a second, pure shock causes my heart to flutter and skip a beat. He’s jolted, too. I can feel it in his tense body, locked up and taut, his muscles flexed. Then, he relaxes against me, his hand pulling my face closer to his, his lips moving against mine.
Our bodies align, and he breathes deeply through his nose, his hot breath caressing my skin as he consumes me within his kiss. And as his tongue tentatively slides along my bottom lip, testing, sampling, I wrap my arm around his waist, allowing myself to be pulled even closer to him.
And then the kiss is hungry and soft all at once. Slow and burning. Hurried and patient. It blazes a trail across my whole body in a fulfilling ache of want, yearning.
But too soon I pull away, knowing we have to sleep and start again. The hazy effect of alcohol first thing in the morning, right after a night of partying, is quickly catching up. And for him, I won’t allow us to do anything either of us will try to regret later.
I lick my lips and whisper, “Night.” His eyes close before mine do.
The taste of Boone is still strong on my lips and mind when I wake to awareness. I blink my eyes open, a stupid smile already curling my mouth.
But my breath halts in my chest as I glimpse Boone asleep, his hand near his head on the pillow, a picture trapped between his fingertips.
I already have an idea of what I’m going to see as I rise up to get a better look—but nothing prepares me for the total shock to my system. Nothing.
A beautiful, plump baby boy with a soft blue beany, chubby cheeks, a lone dimple, smiling into the camera. He’s only a few months old, maybe. I mean, I don’t know. I know nothing about babies. He could be six months…but as everything registers, and my hung-over, foggy brain starts to do the math, everything collides together in a shattering realization.
Breathless, I stare down at Boone. My gaze flicks back and forth, between the picture of baby Hunter and the man in my bed. I’ll regret so hard confirming this, but with slow, shaky movements, trying hard not to wake him, I slip the picture from his fingers. Flip it over.
Hunter Boone Randall.
Shit. My stomach sinks, and I palm my forehead. Dizziness and dehydration zapping all reasoning from my brain.
I thought Hunter was his friend…maybe a brother, even. Or hell, I even seriously thought a lover at one point. And then every selfish, destructive thing I’ve done around Boone comes into focus.
This guy, who has experienced a grief I could never imagine, somehow found a way to continue on in this shit world, sober at that, and I mocked him. Tempted him. Drank and did drugs in front of him. He had it figured out, how to keep himself straight, and last night I…I totally ruined him. Just crashed landed right into his world and shattered his security.
I’m a piece of fucking work.
Shame fills me, searing, suffocating.
I’m sliding off the bed and grabbing my side tote, stuffing random items of clothing inside. Trudging to the bathroom on my tiptoes, I plunk whatever I can fit into my pack. I grab more clothes and my boots on my way through the living room, then snag my phone and charger.
I don’t even take one last look at Boone, still asleep, still unaware, before I bolt from the apartment.
Boone
And my wounds reopen, torn and salted
MY HEAD IS RIPPED open at the seams, the sun bleeding into my conscious, tearing me away from the peaceful oblivion.