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He mocks offense, squeezing my hand before dropping his fingers to my wrist and toying with the rubber band on my wrist.

“Wren has one of these on,” he says, giving it a slight snap.

I swallow through my guilt as he repeats the motion. “Best friend bracelets.”

He makes an amused sound; I redirect his attention by sliding my hands down his arms, feeling the curves of his muscles even through his thick shirt.

“Tell me about boxing.”

He rakes his hands through my hair, fingers playing with the ends. “What do you want to know?”

“All of it, I guess. How you started. What you love about it.”

“I started in college.” His eyes bounce all over my face. “After Zeb. I had a lot—felt a lot I didn’t know what to do with, and I needed to get it out.” His answer catches me off guard. I always imagined he left, moved on, and that was that. I think of Wren—her telling me she needed a way to release the pain. Him becoming a cop. Now boxing. Another piece of the puzzle slips into place. “I tried a few things, but boxing stuck. I felt better. Less . . .”

“Stabby?” I offer.

He chuckles. “Stabby works. It saved me in some ways. Shit, I don’t have to explain it to you—you know how it felt.”

I look away from him at this—because while I absolutely know how it felt, where he and Wren are hellbent on releasing feelings, I take the easier route of pretending I don’t have any.

“Anyway,” he continues. “It stuck. I’ve kept doing it—I love it. I’m trying to buy the gym, actually.”

“Really?” A dog barks in the distance. “And do what?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Run it. Do what I haven’t been able to do in law enforcement. Help kids that need it. Kids like Wren. Zeb.” He swallows, pausing for one, two, three heartbeats.

I read his hesitation and fill in the word he can’t say: “Me.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and nods; I want to tell him I didn’t need help. That I turned out fine without some boxing gym after-school special or whatever it is he’s trying to do. But there’s no space for me to talk because so much adoration for him swells in me it presses against every bone in my body until my joints hurt.

“Like you.” His eyes look over my face, like he’s seeing all of me at once. “Anyway, I’ve been wor—”

I can’t let him finish. Can’t give him one more second of being so far away from me. Hands on his jacket, I pull him to me and press my mouth right to his. I kiss Ford Callahan like I’ve wanted to since the first time I laid eyes on him tonight, and he kisses me back. Both hands in my hair, he laughs against my mouth before working his tongue between my lips and exploring my mouth like he’s never been there before. Teasing. Tasting.

His skin is smooth against mine, better than silk. I pull my mouth away, rubbing my cheek against his just to feel more of him. His hands travel from my hair to my hips to the tops of my thighs and grip; his mouth moves to the edge of my jaw.

“This is better than I remember,” I tell him.

He laughs against my skin, bringing his hands to my face.

“My memory’s still rusty.” Then his mouth is fused back to mine, sucking my lip in a way that drives my hips toward his across the tailgate like a moth to a bright flame.

Ford the man kisses like sex.

I moan—from kissing—and reach for the button of his pants. I need more. Right the hell now.

He pulls away, wrapping a hand around mine. “No,” he says dusting a kiss on my lips. “Not yet.”

“Funny.” I press my mouth to his and fight to free my hands and his belt and everything he’s hiding in his pants.Why is this buckle so complicated?

“Scotty, I’m serious,” he says. And though there’s a playful quality to his voice, he pulls away from me—slightly—and squeezes my hands in his, effectively stopping me.

I look at him. He’s smiling. But he’s also serious.

“I want to take it slow.”

What?