Page 85 of Coming In Hot

“So this is you… what? Being all in?”

Pharo’s head moves up and down, the simplest of gestures. “This is me, standing in a bar bathroom like an idiot, telling you I miss you even when you’re five feet away. That all in enough for you?”

Itis. Of course it is.

But instead of saying anything smart or helpful or remotely emotionally mature, I say, “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

His smile eases the tightness in my chest, just enough for my lungs to remember how to work.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Pharo’s head dips toward mine, and my breath catches. But at the last second, I twist away, breaking the moment before it begins.

“Does Joey really think she stands a chance with you?” I ask, my voice low, more bitter than I mean for it to be.

Pharo blinks, then straightens slowly, his mouth twitching like he’s trying to decide if he’s amused or offended. “Seriously?” he asks. “That’swhat we’re doing now?”

I shrug one shoulder, trying to play it cool while my insides are doing cartwheels. “She follows you around like a lost puppy. Practically drools when you look her way.”

“And you think I encouraged that?” His brows arch, disbelief written all over his face.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. My silence is loud enough.

A breathy, almost incredulous laugh escapes Pharo, shaking his head like the moment’s too much. “Jax. She’s sweet. And yeah, I noticed. But if you really think I’d show up here with her, knowing you’d be here, because Iwantedher?—”

“Then whatwereyou doing?” I cut in, my chest tight with something halfway between insecurity and defensiveness. “Because it sure as hell felt like you were trying to get a rise out of me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Not right away.

“I was,” he admits, eyes locked on mine. “But not for the reason you think. I wanted to see if you’d finally stop pretending you don’t give a shit.”

I stare at him, jaw tight.

“Mission accomplished,” I mutter.

Pharo steps closer again, slower this time, more careful.

“For the record,” he says, voice dropping as he leans in, “if I’m going to kiss someone in a bar bathroom, it’s not going to be Joey.”

This time, when he dips his head, I don’t pull away.

His mouth brushes mine—lightly at first, just a test, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. But I don’t. Can’t. The second his lips meet mine, something in me snaps loose.

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in harder, like I’m trying to make up for every minute we wasted not doing this.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s years of wanting and months of pretending and one long-ass motorcycle ride’s worth of simmering frustration, all crashing together in a kiss that’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Pharo makes a sound—low in his throat, surprised, maybe. Then his hands are on my hips, grounding me, holding me there like he thinks I might bolt.

And I might. Eventually. But not right now.

Right now, I press him back against the sink and kiss him like I’ve got something to prove. Because I do. I’m not sure what it is yet—something about regret and second chances and how maybe Iamhis, just a little—but it’s there, unsaid but loud in the way I bite his bottom lip and feel his breath hitch.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

Pharo’s lips are red. Swollen. Smug.

“You always kiss like you’re starting a fight?” he says, breathless.