Page 32 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

“She always spoke in maybe-phrases.” His expression is both questioning and amused as he unwraps a block of cheese and places it on a cutting board across his lap along with a container of grapes.

“You know, like maybe she was giving a compliment, or maybe she was plotting my death.” He chuckles, putting a grape in my mouth.

“I’m serious!” I chew the grape—it’s tart.

“She’d say, ‘Scotty, you’re here’ or ‘Scotty, I see Ford picked you up’ or ‘Scotty, I’ve never seen a dress like that. ’ What is that?”

“It’s her,” he says with a chuckle, cutting into a log of salami. “And it’s better than if she would have asked why you were there.”

I scoff, taking another sip of Coke. “That’s because she knew why I was there.”

The song switches to a new track, a bird cuts across the twilight-colored sky, and I pluck another grape from the bunch, offering it to him—he nibbles it out of my fingers, eyes smiling as his lips linger on my fingertips.

I notice. He notices I notice. My vagina, that thirsty bitch, really notices.

When he pulls his mouth away, he chews and swallows slowly, then says, “I liked why you were there.”

I snort a laugh, stealing a slice of cheese. “Of course you liked why I was there, you pervert.”

“Oh!” He laughs, making a stack with cheese, salami and a cracker. “You have a dog eating your vibrator but I’m the pervert?” He takes a bite, crumbs sticking to his chin; I wipe them.

“You jealous of my battery-operated boyfriends?” I make a cheese-meat-cracker stack.

“Depends.” He takes a swig of Coke.

“Oh?” I say around a crumbly bite. “On what?”

“On who you’re thinking of when you use it.”

My jaw drops; the years have done a lot to Ford, including making him more forward. I like it very, very much.

“Cat got your tongue, Viper?” He pops an olive in his mouth with a smirk.

“No,” I say with a haughty tone, “I was just thinking how awkward you’ll feel when I tell you I get off thinking about math. ”

He laughs, and before I can register his movements, he leans over and pecks a kiss at the corner of my mouth.

He pulls back—slightly—floating his knuckles over the place his lips just were.

Face inches from mine, knuckles warm on my skin.

I lean into his hand; his palm opens. Cups my face.

And says, “I feel like I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to get to the back of this truck with you, Scotty. ”

The words penetrate my flesh and alter my chemistry. The moment is nothing—twenty-year-old me would have called it boring—but here in the glow of string lights, it’s a glimpse of who we would have been if life hadn’t gone so wrong.

Same , I think. I’ve been waiting and it took you too damn long, I want to shout.

When I don’t respond out of fear of having a complete come apart, he pecks one more kiss on my lips, pulls away, and makes another salami-cheese-cracker stack.

“Don’t hold back, Scotty,” he coos before taking his first bite.

“Tell me about this math you love so much.” When I laugh too hard and slap him playfully on the arm, our conversation slips into nothing important as the sun dips into the cornfield, and we sit in the back of his truck like nothing else exists.

No hurts and no heartaches. No past mistakes or regrets.

Just us, a string of lights, a basket of food, and Mexican Cokes.

By the time the food is gone, the sky is pitch-black and the only light around us is from the strands in the truck and the sliver of moon in the sky. “Thank you for this. It was—I don’t know—different than I expected.”

We scoot down the bed of the truck until we’re at the tailgate.

“Better I hope,” he says, hopping from the truck and positioning himself so he’s standing between my knees. He takes one of my hands in his, intertwining our fingers. What comes next is familiar: He brings my thumb to his lips and dusts a kiss on the end. At once: I’m a teenager.

“You remember the first time I did that?” he asks.

“No,” I lie, wanting to hear him tell the story.

He vibrates with a laugh. “Well, I do.” He kisses my thumb again. “I took you out on our first date—we were out at that weird pancake house that sells hats and dolls over in Springer, remember? Puddy’s?”

I fail to hide my smile; I remember. Every bit. “Maybe.”

“Liar.” He kisses my thumb again. “But to jog your memory, I walked you out to my truck, we were holding hands, and I said, ‘I want to kiss you, Scotty.’ And you said, ‘You can kiss my ass.’ ”

A laugh bursts out of me; it’s so on-brand for both of us. Him telling me exactly how he feels, me saying the complete opposite. Even all these years later, even with all the darts life’s thrown at us, we’re those two teens a couple decades removed.

“And then I said,” he continues, holding our hands up between us and tapping my thumbnail with his free index finger, “ ‘I’ll kiss whatever you’ll give me. Even your thumb . ’ ”

He did and I loved it. At sixteen, I knew I loved him.

“You always were desperate,” I tease.

He mocks offense, squeezing my hand before dropping his fingers to my wrist and toying with the rubber band on my wrist .

“Wren has one of these on,” he says, giving it a slight snap.

I swallow through my guilt as he repeats the motion. “Best friend bracelets.”

He makes an amused sound; I redirect his attention by sliding my hands down his arms, feeling the curves of his muscles even through his thick shirt.

“Tell me about boxing.”

He rakes his hands through my hair, fingers playing with the ends. “What do you want to know?”

“All of it, I guess. How you started. What you love about it.”

“I started in college.” His eyes bounce all over my face.

“After Zeb. I had a lot—felt a lot I didn’t know what to do with, and I needed to get it out.

” His answer catches me off guard. I always imagined he left, moved on, and that was that.

I think of Wren—her telling me she needed a way to release the pain.

Him becoming a cop. Now boxing. Another piece of the puzzle slips into place.

“I tried a few things, but boxing stuck. I felt better. Less . . .”

“Stabby?” I offer.

He chuckles. “Stabby works. It saved me in some ways. Shit, I don’t have to explain it to you—you know how it felt.”

I look away from him at this—because while I absolutely know how it felt, where he and Wren are hellbent on releasing feelings, I take the easier route of pretending I don’t have any.

“Anyway,” he continues. “It stuck. I’ve kept doing it—I love it. I’m trying to buy the gym, actually.”

“Really?” A dog barks in the distance. “And do what? ”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Run it. Do what I haven’t been able to do in law enforcement. Help kids that need it. Kids like Wren. Zeb.” He swallows, pausing for one, two, three heartbeats.

I read his hesitation and fill in the word he can’t say: “Me.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and nods; I want to tell him I didn’t need help.

That I turned out fine without some boxing gym after-school special or whatever it is he’s trying to do.

But there’s no space for me to talk because so much adoration for him swells in me it presses against every bone in my body until my joints hurt.

“Like you.” His eyes look over my face, like he’s seeing all of me at once. “Anyway, I’ve been wor—”

I can’t let him finish. Can’t give him one more second of being so far away from me.

Hands on his jacket, I pull him to me and press my mouth right to his.

I kiss Ford Callahan like I’ve wanted to since the first time I laid eyes on him tonight, and he kisses me back.

Both hands in my hair, he laughs against my mouth before working his tongue between my lips and exploring my mouth like he’s never been there before. Teasing. Tasting.

His skin is smooth against mine, better than silk. I pull my mouth away, rubbing my cheek against his just to feel more of him. His hands travel from my hair to my hips to the tops of my thighs and grip; his mouth moves to the edge of my jaw.

“This is better than I remember,” I tell him.

He laughs against my skin, bringing his hands to my face .

“My memory’s still rusty.” Then his mouth is fused back to mine, sucking my lip in a way that drives my hips toward his across the tailgate like a moth to a bright flame.

Ford the man kisses like sex.

I moan—from kissing—and reach for the button of his pants. I need more. Right the hell now.

He pulls away, wrapping a hand around mine. “No,” he says dusting a kiss on my lips. “Not yet.”

“Funny.” I press my mouth to his and fight to free my hands and his belt and everything he’s hiding in his pants. Why is this buckle so complicated?

“Scotty, I’m serious,” he says. And though there’s a playful quality to his voice, he pulls away from me—slightly—and squeezes my hands in his, effectively stopping me.

I look at him. He’s smiling. But he’s also serious.

“I want to take it slow.”

What?

“Oh,” I say, feeling myself flush. I pull my hand out of his grasp and bring the back of it to my forehead; it’s hot.

Fuck. He kisses me again, but I read the moment for what it is—he doesn’t want me.

But what is all this? The love-nest truck bed?

The kissing? The sucking on my fingers? Abruptly, I’m angry.

“No. You’re right.” My mind is reeling. I flip through my Rolodex of sexual conquests: I’ve never been rejected.

Ever. And here, in the middle of nowhere, Ford has done just that.

Was this some kind of game? I know what’s coming and I don’t fight it.

The venom fills my mouth and coats my tongue.

“I can’t fuck the guy who killed my brother, so thanks for saving me from that mistake. ”

It cuts him as deep as I intend, hurt consuming his features as soon as the words are out. In an unexpected twist: I hate myself.