Page 143 of Almost Ravaged

Turning to face her fully, I scan her from her bare feet, noting the bright-red polish on her toes—a color akin to a waxed Red Delicious—to the messy hair that’s twisted on top of her head.

She smiles up at me sheepishly, as if she, too, isn’t sure how to proceed.

“Coffee?” I offer.

She rolls her lips together and nods. “Extra creamer, please.”

Of course. Even if she hadn’t mentioned it, I could never have forgotten. I remember everything she does and says, the imprints of her etched into my mind with permanent ink.

The kitchen is covered with settling honey—a project I was in the middle of last night before she and Mercer arrived—making it appear more of a mess than it really is. Sweetness wafts from the open jars cluttering the counters as I turn my back and get to work.

I prepare her coffee the way she likes, putting it in an eggshell-white mug that’s one of my usual go-tos. She may be wearing Mercer’s clothes, but she’ll drink the coffee I make for her out of one of my favorite cups.

When I close the fridge and turn, I find her perched on the counter. I hand over the mug and, feeling bold, invade her space, hovering between her legs.

She eyes me and takes her first sip.

When a satisfied hum escapes her, my heart bursts with pride.

This close, it’s hard not to catalog features I’ve yet to allow myself to take in. Her hair really is a mess. Her shoulders are relaxed, her light brown eyes alert. The freckles on her nose and cheeks take me back to last night, to visions of the freckles sprinkled across her body like constellations.

She kicks her legs and takes another sip of her coffee, totally at ease in my kitchen. In my home.

How is it possible that she already fits? Like she’s supposed to be here?

Calmness settles in my bones, the usual volume of my internal thoughts and self-flagellation quieting to no more than a whisper.

With a yawn, she closes her eyes and stretches one arm overhead, causing her T-shirt to shift and expose more of her wide, creamy thighs.

I love looking at her.

But now I’m itching to touch her, too.

Gulping past my insecurities, I pull my shoulders back. And when she opens her eyes, I ask, “Sawyer… can I kiss you?”

Her answering smile sparkles like fresh dew in the early morning sun.

Eagerly, I cup the back of her head and press my lips to hers.

She opens for me without hesitation. Like she’s sure of us, like she trusts me completely.

I dip my tongue into her mouth, savoring just how soft and pliant she is. She tastes like a blend of minty fresh toothpaste and pumpkin spice–flavored coffee. She feels like healing and solace and home.

The last thought jars me, a sharp reminder that I used to kiss another woman in this kitchen, and that once upon a time, that other woman was my home.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction. One that I’m embarrassed by, honestly, because I came to the conclusion only this morning that Meg would want this for me and that I owe it to myself to follow this feeling.

Sawyer’s brows knit together, her hands loosening around my neck. Though she doesn’t release her hold. “Hey,” she says softly. “Where’d you go?”

I didn’t go anywhere. I simply gave in to the darkness that’s always clawing at me. Surrendered to the swamp of guilt and self-loathing that lords over me these days.

My throat tightens, making it difficult to swallow, and the muscles in my jaw and neck go rigid.

“Sorry,” I force out, running a hand through my hair. “I’m—I’m not sure how to do this. How to balance what I want with what I think I can have. This feels fast.” I drag my focus to her, only to find her watching me intently. “Like we’re rushing into something that won’t be enough in the end.”

She slides off the counter, placing her coffee behind her and tucks her hair behind her ears. Then, without breaking eye contact, she circles the counter littered with jars of honey and stops on the other side.

“What are you doing?” I ask, dread pooling in my gut.