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Playing along was so, so easy. I wasn’t worried about turning him off. I didn’t overthink every word that came out of my mouth. He just taught me how to play, literally and figuratively, and so I played, egged on by the easy, confident way he handled me.

With his hands on my body, his words in my ear, I felt like I could do no wrong. He made me feelthatdesired. That safe.

And because I felt safe and desired, I was free to justbe. It was fun as hell.

An ache takes root in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve wanted Wyatt for as long as I can remember. That’s nothing new.

But the sharp-edged need I suddenly feel—coupled with the memory of his hands on my neck, my hips, the small of my back—thatisnew, and it makes me feel like I’m going to combust.

When I glance left, where Beck went, part of me thinks I should follow him. Wyatt is a grown man. He can handle himself. If he has something to say to me, he could’ve say it.

But the thought of leaving him alone right now—leaving whatever just happened unfinished, unexplained—gnaws at me.

I hang a right instead, stopping to grab my coat by the door. But stepping out into the chilly night air, I don’t put it on. The cold feels good on my overheated skin.

The parking lot is mostly empty. It’s later than I thought. Guess time flies when you’re pretending to date your best friend.

Wyatt’s truck gleams in the barn’s floodlights. The passenger door is flung open. A movement inside the cab catches my eye.

A beat later, Wyatt emerges from the truck. He’s still wearing his hat, and he has an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

That’s a red flag. I’ve smelled tobacco on him before—Wyatt’s the kind of guy who’ll never turn down a party cigarette—but he’s never smoked in front of me.

Anger, sudden and pressing, rises through my center. Ignoring the way the need inside me rises along with it, I make a beeline for him.

“Wyatt Benjamin Rivers, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He looks up, the floodlights catching on his eyes. In the darkness, they look liquid. Stepping closer—too close, but whatever—I see that his pupils are blown out.

His cigarette bobs when he replies, “Aren’t you supposed to be chasing Beck?”

“Shut up and tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s been a nice night, Sal. I showed you how to let loose, right?” Tilting his head, he brings his hand to his mouth. His thumb is poised on the strike of a red Bic lighter. “Let’s not ruin it.”

“You’re ruining it by not talking to me.” I duck my head so our eyes meet again. “I’m worried about my friend, and I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on.”

“Friend.” He scoffs.

The lighter clicks, its flame throwing Wyatt’s handsome face into planes of shadow and light. I’m captivated by his strong, straight nose. The fullness of his lips and the coppery tint of his beard.

He’s beautiful.

But then he leans in to light his cigarette, and before I know what I’m doing I’m ripping it out of his mouth.

My fingers accidentally brush his lips, and a shock wave of heat bolts through me as I wobble on my knees. “What does that mean?”

His eyes search mine for a long beat. My pulse is frantic. At last his shoulders rise on a deep, resigned inhale, his hand falling away from his face.

“Means I don’t love pretending to date you.”

My heart falls. To my very great embarrassment, tears prick my eyes. “Oh. Okay. I, um, understand. Asking you to do that was”—I force out a threadbare laugh—“not okay. I’m sorry. But I thought—I mean, we were doing great in there. It really was fun?—”

“That’s just it.” His eyes are pleading as they move between mine. “We crushed it. Beck definitely wants to take you home. How could he not? You were confident as all get out back there. You played poker like you had nothing to lose. Not to mention you’re a total knockout in that dress.” His gaze flicks down my body, a quick, hot perusal that draws my nipples to painfully sensitive points. “But I—Sally, if I’m being honest?—”

“Please. Please be honest.”