Closer, my mind cries out. Close the distance between us.

“You came back.” He says again, like he can’t believe it himself. There’s wonder in his eyes, fierce and breathless. “All this time, I kept watching the door, like you might walk through it. And now, here you are.”

I inhale in a sharp rush, hating myself even as I feel the surge of delight course through me at the words.

He was watching for me? He wanted to see me again?

After the way we ended things, I figured for sure beyond any doubt that I was the last person on earth he’d ever want to see again. He told me that he never wanted to hear from me: no emails, no calls, nothing. That he would rather cut me from his life completely than pretend we could ever be just friends.

It’s hurt me more than anything, imagining that he was out there somewhere, hating me. Regretting me.

But now…?

My heart catches in my throat but I push down my runaway thoughts. “You shouldn’t have looked for me.” I say quickly. “I told you, I wasn’t coming back.”

Emerson’s face darkens again. “I remember. Believe me, I remember everything.”

That last day suddenly springs into my mind: the funeral service, damp winds blowing on the desolate clifftop. Emerson at my side, holding me up when I thought I didn’t have the strength to keep it together. And then, just when I thought I couldn’t hurt more than I already did—when I thought my heart was broken all the way—Emerson proved there was still something left to destroy.

I meet Emerson’s eyes, and I can tell from his expression, he’s remembering it too.

“And I’m not back,” I babble quickly, clutching at my keys. “Not for real. We’re selling the house, I’m just here to pack it up. A couple of days. Then I’ll be gone.”

Forever.

The word hangs in the air between us.

Emerson’s face smoothes out, totally blank.

“Sure.” He shrugs, suddenly casual. “I should have figured. I mean, there’s nothing left here for you anymore.”

His words slam through me like a physical blow. I try to hide my dismay. Nothing left here for you anymore. I know I shouldn’t have expected anything different, but still, my heart aches at his casual tone, like he’s talking about the weather instead of us.

“Right.” I say, fighting back the tears stinging in the back of my throat. “I’ll be gone by next week. You won’t see me again.”

Emerson gives a curt nod. “You need help packing up?”

My skin burns. Now he’s being polite, as if we’re distant strangers he’s offering to lend a hand.

“No,” I choke out. The only thing worse than his anger is his detached obligation. “I don’t need anything from you! I never did!”

Emerson’s whole body tenses. “That’s right,” he says, giving me a cruel smile. His eyes glint, dark in the shadows. “You didn’t.”

I flinch again at his blow, and the bitterness in his voice. It tears me up inside to hear him sound like this, but why should I be surprised? He was the one who took our love and tore it in two, like I was nothing to him. Like those hot, fierce summer nights and all his whispered promises had been nothing but a dream.

I know I should go now, just get in my car and leave, but I still can’t move. His presence is magnetic, and even through his anger, and the turmoil of my guilty emotions, I feel the call of his body to mine, here in the middle of the empty parking lot. The sound of a car engine passes in the distance, and then it’s silent again, nothing but shadows, and the faint drift of noise and laughter through the tavern windows.

I stare at him, frozen. Muscle memory, they call it; when you do something so many times, that it becomes automatic, beyond all rational thought. To be so close to him, and not reach out… Hold him… Kiss him. It takes all the self-control I have not to give in to the temptation.

I can see it in his eyes, Emerson feels it too. And he was never about the self-control.

Before I can react, he’s closing the distance between us in a few powerful strides. He stops, just inches away, so close, I can feel the heat of his body radiating through his T-shirt.

Close enough to touch.

But still, I fight it, desperate. I clench my fingers at my sides to stop myself reaching up and running them through that dark hair of his, to feel the soft scratch of his stubble, trace the outline of his jaw. I always thought, I could draw his face by heart, but now, so close, I want to discover it all over again.

Emerson stares down at me, his eyes piercing my every defense until I’m sure he can see everything I’m feeling: my whole soul open and waiting for him. His eyes are hot as he reaches out, and slowly traces the line of my jaw.

I shudder. A shock sparks through me where his hand brushes my face: hot, and wild, it courses like quicksilver through my body—pooling low in my stomach.

Desire.

But still, I can’t move. I’m caught in the mesmerizing trap of his gaze, powerless to do anything as Emerson’s fingers slowly traces down my face. His thumb comes to rest on my lower lip, rough against my skin.

I gasp a ragged breath. Every nerve in my body is lit up, sparkling with need. My world shrinks, contracting to just his eyes, and touch, and the low, deep pull in my stomach.

I ache for him.

Emerson leans closer, breath hot against my cheek. I shudder again with the physicality of it, the pure, overwhelming desire. My eyes drift shut, so there’s nothing but feeling—no light, or world outside, just his body pressing closer to mine. A distant part of me is screaming to break away, but I can’t move, I can barely even breathe.