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I swallow. “Yeah.”

Her smile fades a little. “You okay, honey?”

Grabbing the nearby banister, I nod. “Just tired. Holler when dinner’s ready?”

“Of course.” A pause. “You know I’m always here if you need to talk, right?”

My eyes film over. Part of me wants to confide in Mom. Another part is afraid she’ll think the same thing Dad would. That a fling with a guy from Hartsville is fine, but anything more than that is a bad idea. I’ve spent my whole life in pursuit of the job I now have in hand. Mom and Dad sacrificed so much to help me make that particular dream come true, and I can’t let them down now that we’re so close to the finish line.

Mom loves Wyatt like a son. So does Dad. But even if they do love him like family, would they love him for me?

I can’t stop thinking about that fucking tattoo.

“I appreciate that, Mom. Thank you.”

Then I bolt upstairs, my legs feeling like lead weights as I move.

CHAPTER 18

Sally

ALL IN

Closingmy bedroom door behind me, I crawl into my bed. There’s a new soreness between my legs.

Wyatt and his magic fingers. He knew just where to touch me. Just the right amount of pressure to apply. The way he teased me, dipping the blunt tip of his finger inside me before using the moisture he gathered to play with my clit?—

Even now, wrung out, an emotional wreck, I’m still hot all over at the memory of how it felt when that man had his hands on me.

I wish I could be cooler about this. I hate dwelling on one afternoon, one orgasm, one guy, like a lovesick teenager. It’s embarrassing.

But so much happened in that one afternoon. Wyatt keeps giving me glimpses of the man behind the mask he wears, and now I want more. I want to see all of him. Know all of him.

“Of course I trust you. I always have.”

“You saved my life.”

“You’re fuckin’ perfect, Sal.”

I can’t stop thinking about the things he said. The thingshe did. I’m brimming with feeling, and there’s nothing I can do to keep it from spilling over.

Burying my head in the pillow, I let the tears flow. It just…hurts.

I’m being greedy, wantingmore. Wyatt’s already given me so much—all the attention and the patience I asked for. I need to be content with that.

I should be content with that, but I’m not, and the frustration it makes me feel—coupled with the confusion I feel about my future—only makes me cry harder.

Tap.

At first, I think I imagined the sound. Speaking of lovesick teenagers, for half a heartbeat I time-travel back to high school, when Wyatt would climb onto the roof of the front porch and rap his knuckle on my window. Together, we’d sneak out and hop in his truck, which he’d hidden a couple of hundred yards from the house behind a stand of gnarled oaks. Sometimes, we’d escape to the river, where we’d drink our Jack and Cokes and go swimming. Other times, we’d just drive, the music turned up loud as we crisscrossed Hart County, singing along to Mumford & Sons, Alan Jackson, Bon Iver.

God, how badly I wanted Wyatt to pull over and make a move on those drives. I was nursing a serious, unrequited crush on him back then—same as I am now—and as we drove, I’d fantasize about him reaching across the center console and putting a hand on my thigh. Just like he did the night he drove me home from the potluck.

Tap, tap.

I go still, holding my breath. Maybe I’m not imagining the sound.

Lifting my head off the pillow, I turn and see a dark silhouette in the window outlined against the fiery sunset that fills the sky.