Page 20 of About Yesterday (Foothills #5)

He chewed the edge of his lip, trying to find his voice again to respond. “Second drawer. Your mom got me some. I’m honestly not sure what it’s for either, but it smells nice.”

Trace looked away long enough to grab the glass flask and poured a pool into her palm.

“You’re not going to expound on that, are you? ‘Places?’” he asked, searching to see if she’d flirt with him again.

“Nope,” she murmured, focusing hard, a light smile brimming with a wicked comeback, her eyes flashing only briefly to his, and he could see the shyness she was fighting against.

“Not to make you self-conscious about your red hair, but—“ He didn’t need to finish.

She picked the razor back up and gripped it threateningly.

He sheepishly bit his tongue and loved the way she looked ready to laugh deviously with his favorite witchy laugh, but instead, she tapped the back of the razor against his chin and set it down again.

She rubbed aftershave in her hands, warming it, then, instead of slapping it on like she should after he tried to push her buttons, she downshifted quickly, gently smoothing it over his face, with the grain, the sting of it not nearly as altering as her fingertips gracing the contours of his jaw.

Fuck, he was so screwed. Entranced as he watched her work, slower than she needed to, lingering with her gentle touch, his gaze dropped to her mouth again. What was it with those sweetly pink lips, always a breath away from a smile that tempted him so desperately?

Silence reigned in the room, the white noise of the fan drowning out the sounds of the house. Trace rested her palms on his jaw. Studying him with quiet, shallow breaths, she rubbed her thumb over his bottom lip. The aftershave tingled and he craved pressure to soothe it away.

Logical thought long gone, following the pounding in his chest, her hand on his face, her thumb on his sensitized bottom lip, he leaned into her touch. Closing his eyes, his lips, he lightly kissed the pad of her thumb.

Her breath caught, and she stilled.

Eyes fluttering open, he searched hers. Blue eyes boiling with a lust that mirrored his own, and he knew she wanted to kiss him. For better or worse.

Having her here, so close, so intimate, every nerve in his body hummed at the possibility of discovering what her lips felt like against his, her body pressing against him. Of peeling off black lace or pink cotton or whatever was under that shirt, of palming his hands over bare skin.

Gripping the countertop, he leaned in.

Trace inhaled sharply and pulled back, standing tall, biting her lips together, her eyes burning red.

She turned fast.

And ran.

Fuck. He’d stepped in it worse than ever. He dropped to the ground, his good foot hitting the ground first and he eased his healing ankle down, grateful for the pressure, but the splitting pain still hinted that he was far from recovered.

His reflection glared back at him, disappointed in the man looking through the glass, too single-minded to stop and think before trying to kiss her.

Again. Hadn’t she opened up that very morning and told him how lost she was?

How her self-esteem had hit rock bottom and she was trying to claw her way out?

Fuck. Not the time to make a move.

He smoothed his wet hair back, tucking it behind his ears as he limped out of the bathroom. Towel secured at his waist, he looked at both of their bedroom doors. Uncertain, unknowing, indecisive.

The least he could do was put some clothes on before facing her again, so he headed into his bedroom. He tugged on the old man jeans and pocket t-shirt that Ellen had kindly picked up for him. But it was time to start living his own life again.

He crossed to Trace’s bedroom and knocked lightly. “Trace? Can we talk?” he asked through the door when she didn’t answer right away. “I’m really sorry,” he added, hoping to hell Jeremy wasn’t still in the kitchen and that his voice didn’t carry straight down.

Trace eased open the door and stepped back, biting her lips together.

Oh. Fuck. She’d left her hair down, but added something that smoothed the frizz and parted it so her there was a bounce in the curls that framed her face.

He always thought she had that rare, natural beauty where her dark eyes, pink lips, and freckles made her look like a mysterious fairy.

She’d added a subtle sparkle to her lids and her eyelashes were dark and wispy, elevating the look to a fairy with a wicked imagination.

Now would absolutely not be the time to grovel an apology for wanting to kiss her and risk making her at all think that he hadn’t meant it.

Instead, he slipped inside and leaned against the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets and nodding with thorough approval.

“Fuck, I wish you could see yourself the way others do. Well, the way I do, as I can only speak for my biased self.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “You noticed . Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“What? No. You look very normal. Not at all standout-ish. I was just remarking because you brought it up earlier and I really do wish you knew how fucking hot you look, in a normal, honest way, not like an overly posed, trying-too-hard thirst trap or something.”

“But if you didn’t know me and saw me like this, you wouldn’t think, ‘damn, she doesn’t fit in.’”

“What? No. Sweaty from the workout or sleepy with wild hair or looking like a siren. Or even in the pastel pants and sweater sets. You’re fucking hot no matter what you wear, so let’s get that out of the way right now.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Sweet, but I also don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

He was terrible at this. He rocked on his heels and slammed his head back against the door.

“You don’t look like you’re trying too hard,” he groaned.

“Don’t you have… Haley or someone for this?

” An audible growl erupted from deep in his throat and he gripped his hand in his hair.

He wasn’t going to get this right. Trace was going to see right through whatever bullshit he could cook up, and he needed to release her from his crush before he really messed things up between them.

“I came in here to apologize for trying to kiss you.” Again. “And to explain.”

Expression heavy, she searched his look, seeming to know she was the first and only person to hear any of what he was about to say.

“Through high school, you were head over heels for Finn and the two of you were my best friends and I never wanted to mess with that, for your sake and mine,” he growled, and he couldn’t seem to stop the verbal floodgates from spewing all over her floor.

“But I still beat off with fantasies of you every fucking chance I got. After I left, I looked forward to every scrap of news about you from your parents, about died every time you called me and I got to hear your voice. Ten goddamn years. While they were literally pouring salt on my wounds,” he said, lifting his shirt and pointing to the marks on his abdomen.

“All I could think of was coming home to you. That’s why I quit my fucking job.

Because they broke me, to the point that I didn’t want to survive, but there was this glimmer of hope that if I made it out of there, I could see you again. ”

She stood frozen, watching him, her brow drawn tight and her chest lifting and falling slowly, measured and heavy.

He didn’t budge from against the door. “I’m telling you this because you deserve to know why I can’t stop looking at you, why my heart races every time you walk into a room, and why I try to kiss you every time we get close. But you don’t owe me shit. This is my problem.”

Trace didn’t respond, but he could see her open and listen with all of her, withholding judgment.

“ I used you .“ He gritted his teeth together, realizing how badly he’d screwed up, and she wouldn’t have a clue how much the apology was needed.

“I used my memories of you, my fantasies of you, to stay alive. Not you . Now, I’m back, and you’re so real, and my brain is so fucked. This isn’t fair to either of us.”

Surprising him more than ever, she relaxed her posture and sat on the foot of her bed, considering his words. “Thank you, for… telling me that. I’m glad you had something to keep you holding on, and I’m not sure exactly how to grasp… that it was me.”

He bit his lips together, letting her process while he struggled to stay standing.

“I always hated that trope, in movies, books, whatever, when the hero had gone to war or was shipwrecked for years or something, and he obsesses over her to survive, then when he gets home, he expects her to be what she was in the past, or what his imagination made her into, as if she didn’t have a life of her own.

And sometimes the story has her moving on and the audience sees her as a cheating bitch. I’m not saying that you—“

“No. Yeah. You’re exactly right,” he said, biting the edge of his tongue as he studied her, searched her bedroom, her home.

“In the weeks that I’ve been back, I’m already discovering so many sides of you that I’d forgotten or had never seen.

You’re sexy as hell and twice as vibrant.

That laugh, I’d honestly forgotten how much I love your laugh.

I don’t get to hear it nearly enough. I crave that sound.

” He closed his eyes, slowly opening again as he tried to sort out memory from imagination.

“Or…” Trace said, holding his look and he couldn’t look away. “Or she is magically still in love with him, but she doesn’t know him anymore either. I like it better when she falls for the man he is today. When they get to know each other all over again.”