Page 17 of Rewind It Back (Windy City #5)

Hallie

It’s after midnight when I slip out the back door of the bar to find Rio leaning against his truck, hands slipped in his suit pants pockets, one leg crossed over the other, and waiting for me.

He looked sinfully delicious when I found him at the bar, wearing that deep maroon suit and white button-down shirt, freshly showered straight from the rink. He looks even more edible now since removing the jacket and rolling his shirt sleeves to reveal those stupidly cut forearms. He’s also added a dark gray beanie pulled down over his ears since coming outside. He’s been waiting for me out here since I told him I was going to get tipped out and head home for the night.

He was quite the distraction, sitting there at the corner of the bar, drinking glass after glass of water and watching me work. I felt his eyes on me the whole time. Felt myself glow under the attention, regardless that technically, I’m not supposed to want it.

When the bar slowed down for one of us to get cut for the night, I volunteered, knowing I was too distracted to be much help anyway and that Rio wasn’t going to leave until I did.

I didn’t tell him I was working tonight, didn’t tell him I didn’t bring my car downtown, but he seems pretty satisfied with himself that he figured that all out on his own, wearing that boyish grin on his lips that I missed and leaning against his truck.

He’s making it awfully difficult to remember why I didn’t kiss him the other night.

“Any chance you need a ride home?” he asks.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

His smile turns proud.

Together, we round the hood of his car. Rio opens the passenger side door for me and right there, sitting on the seat, is a folded blanket and a small pillow.

I spin on my heel to face him, and I don’t think it’s simply the chilly Chicago air that’s making his olive-toned skin flushed.

“In case you wanted to get some sleep again.”

Once again, I don’t have words.

He rubs the back of his neck, that same nervous tic he’s always had. “I can throw it in the back.”

I’m really, really trying to remember why I didn’t kiss him the other night. Something about heartbreak and working together and friendship. Things that seem wholly unimportant to me now.

I only realize I didn’t respond when Rio makes a move to clear the seat off, but I’m quick to reach out and cover his hand with my own, stopping him.

“Please don’t.” My voice is soft. “Thank you.”

This is thoughtful in a way that’s overwhelming. Thoughtful in a way that’s almost uncomfortable because it’s been so long that someone’s thought of me and my needs that I’m out of practice with being looked after.

I have this strange urge to cry because it feels so foreign, yet at the same time, simple, having someone else look out for you. To care about the things that you might need, including an extra twenty minutes of sleep.

All other words are stuck in my throat and the silence is thick before Rio offers me a placating smile, slowly pulling his hand out from under mine. He rounds the truck to his side, but I watch him close his eyes momentarily, like he’s trying to swallow back a bit of embarrassment while simultaneously hoping to disappear.

Rio would have had to put these in here before leaving for his game, before he knew he would be driving me home. It’s exactly what the boy I was in love with would’ve done.

He turns on his truck as I work my hardest to swallow down the emotions. I unfold the blanket, draping it over my legs before tucking it under my thighs, really making a show of it so he can see I’m grateful that he thought of me because I’m having a hard time with the words. Angling my body towards him slightly, I wedge the pillow under my head on the side of the seat that’s closest to the middle, making myself comfortable.

That satisfied smile lifts on his lips again, his dimples sinking into his cheeks, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything more lovely.

Rio pulls out of the parking lot, and I don’t waste time, reaching for the truck’s screen display and finding his music app. Because for the first time in God knows how many years, this is a moment I want to remember. I want to listen to music and allow it to give me hope. I want to associate a song with a memory.

“What are we listening to?” I ask.

That prideful smile turns soft, maybe even sentimental. “Whatever you want, Hal. I’m good with anything.”

I pick something random, and we drive for the next twenty minutes without saying a word, just listening to music together.

Exactly like we used to.

All too soon, we near our exit on the expressway, and Rio merges to the right lane, getting ready to take it.

I work up the nerve and ask what I’ve been thinking about the entire drive. “I know it’s your only night home and you just waited for me for hours, but is there any chance you’d want to keep driving?”

I don’t dare look over at him. I know what I’m asking is selfish, but for the first time in a long time, things feel good between us, and I want to live in it for a bit longer. He’s about to leave for two weeks. Who knows if he’ll come to his senses in that time? Who knows if I will?

The car is silent between songs and without Rio’s response, until finally, after what feels like forever, the sound of his blinker begins to click.

I look up to find him leaning his head back on the headrest, wearing a soft smile, and merging back onto the expressway.

He’s really showing off that forearm with his rolled-up sleeve and one hand on the wheel as he drives past the city limits. Past anywhere I’ve ever been. He just drives, going nowhere in particular.

“Do you remember this song?” Rio asks when an old TLC song starts playing through the speakers.

“Of course I remember this song. I specifically remember us listening to it in my bedroom one night and telling you it was playing the first time some boy told me he liked me.”

“Kevin Gross,” Rio mumbles under his breath. “I hated that guy, by the way.”

“Why?” I burst a laugh. “He was a nice kid. Incredibly strange, but nice.”

“He got to tell you he liked you before I could. That song should have been dedicated to me.”

I’m still chuckling because this is ridiculous and petty and was almost thirteen years ago. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, the only memory I have of that song being on my yearly playlist is listening to it with you.”

Rio is biting back his smile. “I guess that helps a little.”

When the song ends, I actively choose the next one.

His head falls back in laughter as soon it begins to play. “I still remember how relieved I felt when you put this song on right before I kissed you for the first time.”

I turn it up and let “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer blast through the speakers.

“It was subliminal messaging.”

“There was no secret meaning in the song choice, Hallie. It was the least subtle thing you’ve ever done, and I was so fucking thankful for that.”

We drive for another two hours, laughing at stupid memories we have as kids, playing old songs we used to be obsessed with. He takes a few back roads, cruising down unlit lanes until eventually, he pulls into a gas station, needing to refill the tank.

It’s nearing three in the morning when he gets back into the cab and restarts the truck.

“Should we get home?” I ask.

He pulls back onto the road. “If you’re ready, we can.”

“It’s almost three in the morning. What are you going to do? Keep driving me around until it’s time for you to head to the airport for your trip?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

I chuckle. “I should get some sleep. I’ve got to work in a few hours.”

This time when Rio is driving down the expressway, he gets off at our exit. The turns he takes to get into our neighborhood are done slowly, about five miles under the speed limit, drawing this drive out for as long as possible. And though I know I’m going to be dead tired on my feet tomorrow, I also don’t want this to end.

He parks in his driveway and kills the engine, but it takes a while for either of us to move. I’m the first one to, refolding the blanket and stacking both it and the pillow on his dashboard.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “That...”

“Felt exactly how it’s supposed to,” he finishes.

I don’t ask him to elaborate if that sentence should end with “between us,” because we truly do have so much good history when we ignore the bad, or if he means in general. That it felt exactly how it’s supposed to with “your person.”

Then there’s that voice in my head, the one who used to be in love with him, that’s wondering if there’s any difference between the two.

“That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” I add, not agreeing or disagreeing with his statement.

I expect it to get a little bit awkward once we’re out of the car and he walks to his house while I cross the lawn to mine. But surprisingly enough, Rio doesn’t head up the front porch stairs to his house. He instead rounds the hood of his truck and starts walking to mine.

“What are you doing?” I ask, still frozen next to his truck.

“What do you think I’m doing, Hart?” He turns to face me, walking backwards. “I’m walking you home. You coming?”

All those reasons I had floating around my head as to why I couldn’t kiss him last weekend, right here in this very spot, are suddenly nowhere to be found.

I catch up to him, and we take the steps up to my front porch slowly, but only when I reach the front door do I realize that he stopped on the second stair from the top.

We both know he’s trying to keep a safe distance, but I’m over here wanting to be reckless.

“What happened to you walking me home?” I tease, key in the lock. “You going to finish the job or what, DeLuca?”

He chuckles under his breath before he takes slow, hesitant steps up the stairs and across the porch to meet me at the door. Leaning one shoulder on the doorframe, he nods towards the unturned key.

“You should go inside, Hallie.”

It’s almost testing in the way he says it with his voice all gruff, paired with a slight flex of his jaw. His hands are once again tucked in his pockets, like a physical manifestation of the restraint he’s trying to possess.

I look down to the lock then up to him, and it feels like a representation of my own internal battle. I could go inside to keep things friendly and professional because I’m not fully over him leaving all those years ago when I needed him most. Not to mention, he doesn’t know the whole story. Or I could lean up and press my mouth against his because he’s the only person I’ve ever loved and he’s standing in front of me all these years later.

The classic battle of the head versus the heart.

Today, the non-logical heart wins when I wrap a fist around the front of his shirt to pull him down, at the same time lifting to my toes, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s a bit unpolished and almost a miss, my lips barely brushing against his.

Reminiscent of our very first kiss, I suppose. Just enough to tell him that I want this.

Pulling back, I catch his eyes and they’re dark and hungry and hooded.

His attention moves back to my mouth, once again asking the question, “You single, Hal?”

I finally give him the long-awaited answer, nodding to tell him yes.

“Good.” He takes a slow predatorial step towards me, tone sharp and leaving no room for question. “Because we aren’t fucking friends.”

With that declaration, he grips the side of my neck and slams his mouth onto mine.

Startling, the only sensation is warmth. Warmth from his mouth on mine. Warmth from the overwhelming presence of his body and the desperation in which he’s kissing me. Because it is desperate. It’s needy and it’s wanting. It feels like there are six years of wanting wrapped into this kiss.

He gives me a moment to catch on to what’s happening, for me to part my lips and ask for more. And when I do, when I give in to him, it becomes all-consuming, every one of my senses ramping up to ten.

He smells incredible. He smells like him .

He tastes delicious. Just as I remember.

He feels strong and in control, with firm but measured pressure on my throat.

I can’t see him with my eyes closed, but I can imagine how fucking good he looks, towering over me and taking what he wants.

And as far as he sounds... God, the pleading noises coming from this man’s throat right now alone could cause me to come undone.

Rio’s other hand finally slips free from his pocket, and all that restraint to keep from touching me flies out the window. Both hands palm the sides of my face, pushing me flush against the front door. He moves me where he wants me, taking over and slipping his tongue past my parted lips.

The pads of his fingers grip my hair, his big thigh slips between my own, pressing us closer.

An unpermitted moan crawls up my throat as his tongue slides against mine, as I rock my seeking hips against him.

His responding groan vibrates against my body and God, it just feels right . No awkwardness, no figuring it out tentatively, because I’ve been kissing this boy since I was sixteen. We were the ones who taught each other how to do it. It’s second nature at this point.

His mouth is warm and soft yet unyielding. Firm in the way he knows what he wants. A little messy. A little untethered. A little unhinged. And there’s a whole lot of eagerness from both our sides.

I circle his forearms, tracing the hills and valleys of muscle there, following the lines of veins bulging under the skin.

Slowly pulling away from my mouth, he rests his forehead against mine.

“ Fuck ,” he breathes out against my lips. “I missed this, Hal.”

He opens his eyes to watch as I run my hands up his ribs, right against his racing heart and chest, feeling every shallow yet hard-earned breath.

“Please don’t stop,” he says, but it almost comes out as a whimper. “Fuck, I missed the way you touch me.”

I take my time touching him, feeling him, really exploring him for the first time since he’s grown into this new body. My fingertips toy with the fabric of his shirt, pressing it flush against the skin by his chest and ribs. The white material is so thin, I can almost make out the black ink below it.

Too soon, Rio circles my forearms, moving my hands to run up his chest and neck, for my fingers to slide into the waves that are flipped out under the nape of his beanie. He closes his eyes again when, of my own accord, I move my hands to bracket his face and pull his mouth back down to meet my own.

He hums this satisfying sound and God if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve heard.

Rio’s hands move, one gliding around my neck, fully surrounding it, his thumb stroking the pulse point there. The other slides between me and the door, his palm cradling my ass as he pulls me into him.

In all the times we’ve kissed before, he’s never kissed me like this . Like it’s the first time he’s come up for air in years. It’s frantic. It’s full of longing. But he has no idea how much I’ve longed for this. How I spent most of the past six years wanting exactly this.

Wanting him.

Wanting him to change his mind and find me so I could explain everything and hope to make him understand. Hope to make him forgive me. Hope that he’d want us again.

And just like that, I remember I’m kissing the man I’m still heartbroken over.

He must sense a change in me because he slows things down, or maybe I do, I don’t know. The kiss becomes softer and more tender, almost a bit apologetic. He gently runs his hand over my hair, down my neck, and over my rib cage as if he were committing it to memory. Then that same hand moves around behind me before I feel him slip something into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Please don’t say anything right now,” he whispers against me, seemingly knowing I was about to put a stop to all of this. “Just let us have this moment.”

Words are stuck in my throat anyway, so I simply nod against him.

Behind me, he opens the door to my house and it’s only then I realize he unlocked it and slipped the key in my pocket.

He pulls back, puffy lips, heavy eyes, flushed cheeks. His expression is sweet and full of longing as he takes in every inch of me.

“Let’s not overthink this,” he pleads, seemingly to be giving himself that same advice. He strokes his thumb over my cheekbone, finishing with one more gentle kiss to my lips. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

Then he leaves me speechless in the doorway of my house before crossing the lawn to his.