If my story will be an echo of hers.
The way it always has been.
But then Hart is on top of me. And I’m not thinking of anything any more.
Not even Elora.
Or Zale, with his ice-fire eyes and his electric touch.
All I’m thinking about is Hart.
How I wish I could press kisses to all the broken places way down deep inside him. All the sore spots I know I’ll never be able to reach. But I can’t. So my mouth finds his collarbone. His jaw. The hollow at the base of his neck.
Hart decides to pick up the pace, and I don’t complain when he fast-forwards to the part where he awkwardly tries to unbutton my shorts and slide them down my legs. But they get all tangled around my ankles when I try to kick them off. And Hart laughs. It’s a low, genuine chuckle deep in his throat, and when I hear it, I fall absolutely head over heels in love with him all over again.
For like the ten millionth time in seventeen summers.
That moment slips away like river fog, though, and Hart presses himself hard against me. I reach down to touch him through his jeans, and he hisses. I feel his teeth at my neck. Sharp. Not kissing me any more. Biting. Nipping. Pulling at me. Eating me alive.
Devouring me.
His breath is ragged and whiskey-thick. He pants in my ear and growls my name as he slides a rough hand under my bra.
From his side of the pond, Willie Nelson grunts and bellows at us, like maybe we’re the noisy neighbors keeping him awake.
I fumble with the buttons on Hart’s jeans, but I can’t get them undone.
His tongue moves over the edges of my teeth, one hand tangled in my hair, as he yanks his fly open. I hear the metal buttons scatter across the bottom of the boat.
He shoves his own hand down the front of his jeans, and I feel him moving against me as I open my mouth wider for him. Denim rubs at my thighs, and the weight of him steals my breath.
I tug at the waist of his jeans, trying to pull them down, but he won’t let me.
“No,” he says. “Don’t. I just need –” But then my mouth finds his neck again, and his words become meaningless syllables as his hand keeps working.
“Fuck!” I feel all his muscles tighten before he goes limp in my arms.
And that’s it.
It’s all over.
Whatever it was that pulled us toward each other drifts away like mist.
Or cigarette smoke.
Hart helps me up. He slings his T-shirt over one shoulder before he shakes the cypress needles out of my tank top and hands it back to me. I turn it right side out and pull it over my head before I tug on my shorts.
He straightens up his jeans. Mutters something about the buttons. And how late it is. Tries to laugh again.
Fails.
Then he walks me home. He doesn’t hold my hand, but he does manage to mumble, “Night.”
Nothing more than that. And even that is more than I can force out.
When Hart leaves, I reach for the doorknob. But Evie suddenly appears out of the shadows on her front porch. She looks so small, and she moves so silently in my direction that I mistake her for Wrynn at first. But then the moon catches that white-blonde hair.
“You lied to me,” she whispers. “You told me Hart didn’t love you.” Her chin quivers, and the misery in her voice is more than I can bear tonight.
“He doesn’t. Evie –”
She comes a few steps closer. Her eyes are the color of river fog.
“Please don’t take him away, Grey.” She reaches for my hand. Squeezes hard. “He’s the only good person left in this whole place.” She bursts into tears. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what he did for me. He saved me, Grey. If he leaves –”
“I do know, Evie.” She stares at me. Mouth open like a door off its hinges. “Hart told me what he did. For you.”
“He told you?” Her words are a terrified whisper. Evie blinks. Gives her head a little shake. She lets go of my hand. Takes a step backward. And I see her shiver.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” I tell her. But she’s still frozen. “Vic won’t hurt you any more. Or your mama.”
Evie kind of melts, and I pull her close to wrap her up in a hug. She clings to me like I’m some kind of life preserver. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a little sister. And I wish so much that I could keep her safe.
From Victor. And men like him.
From this place.
From the hurt of loving someone who won’t ever be capable of loving her back. At least not the way she wants.
But I can’t protect her from any of that. So I hold her and stroke her hair while she cries. I breathe in the sweet summertime scent of her. And I promise her over and over that Hart isn’t going anywhere. That he loves her.