Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(51)

Joyful, tragic, peaceful, funny. Unforgettable moments, and moments we wish we could forget.

And kissing Sloane in this truck is not one of those. It’s a moment I fully intend to hang onto. In the past, I was told to stay away from her. In the past, I cared about that warning.

In this moment though? I don’t give a fuck.

“It wasn’t a moment of insanity,” I say matter-of-factly.

“Sorry?” She sounds incredulous.

“I definitely meant to kiss you.”

She scoffs, crossing her arms and turning beet red. “You were barely responsive mere seconds beforehand. You were in shock, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me for it to be true.”

I don’t know why after years of keeping my mouth shut, I’m now blurting this all out. Most likely, it’s because I saw our lives flash before my eyes back there. When I looked over at Sloane beside me and saw her beautiful blue eyes clamped shut, fingers gripping the seat, shoulders scrunched up to her ears, I realized it could be my last moment with her.

My last moment and she would never know what she is to me. How much she is to me. That she’s it for me. And that’s just fucking insane. Like a waste. Like for a man who knows loss so intimately, why would I ever set myself up to lose something so precious?

I think that’s the realization that hit me at the dinner where I watched Sloane sit beside a man who talked over her every chance he got. She was about to marry a piece of human chauvinist garbage, but she could have had me—if she wanted me.

If I’d just told her.

And she didn’t know because I was too stuck in my own my head to tell her. Too paralyzed by my fear of losing people I care about. Of losing her.

But fuck, losing someone and having them not know that you care about them? Wishing you could go back and tell them?

That’s a special hell. One I have no intention of living in because I’ve given my demons enough of myself already—they can’t have her too.

“I just almost married someone else.”

I nod brusquely, glancing over at her. She looks pissed, which is not the reaction I expected. But then, so am I. Because the mere mention of her marrying someone sends me into a hot, simmering rage so unlike me I don’t even know what to do with it.

“Yeah. That would have been a shame because he really fucking sucks.”

“Ha! Un-fucking-believable.” Her jaw pops, and she stares out the passenger window. “I’ve known you for what? Eighteen years? Almost half your life? And this . . . this feeling is just occurring to you now?”

A humorless laugh bubbles up out of her and she shakes her head. “Someone else came to play in your sandbox and you got all territorial after years of not giving me a second look? Love that for me. I’m not a fire hydrant for you to piss on, Jasper.” Her hands shoot up beside her head. “Like . . . I’m supposed to buy that you’ve just had some sort of awakening and your childhood friend is suddenly hella kissable these days? God. That’s hilarious. If I didn’t like you so much, I’d kick you in the balls for this.”

I should be worried, but all I can think is there she is. The firecracker girl. The prima ballerina who trains her ass off and drinks cheap beer like it’s fine wine.

I tell her the truth, eyes on the road. “It’s not just occurring to me now.”

She rolls her eyes, shimmying her shoulders up taller, as if straightening in her seat might make her feel less vulnerable.

“It’s true.” I wish the roads were better so I could give her my full attention and look her in the eye. Wipe that petulant expression off her face and kiss her again. Make her believe me. Because I know I haven’t been imagining these moments between us. The ones where the air grows so heavy that it feels like more than I can bear.

“I don’t believe you,” she repeats, but this time her voice is a little hoarse.

“You kissed me back,” I say right as I’m hit with the sickening thought that maybe I’m out to lunch. Maybe this is all very one-sided and I’ve gone horribly offtrack. After all, my experience with women in any capacity beyond sex is nonexistent.

Except for Sunny. She’s the girl I tell everything. The girl who was always there on my worst days and darkest nights. Not because I asked her to be, but just because that’s what we are to each other.

It doesn’t matter how many years have passed. We’ll always be that to each other.

“No shit.” She’s crossed her arms over her ribs again, and my eyes trail over the way it props her breasts up. The tingle in my fingers is now an itch to explore every inch of her body, to show her all the ways I want her.

Fuck, I want her.

Sloane is soothing. She’s the eye of the storm. True North. Somehow our compasses always bring us back to each other.

When we stop at the first red light in Blisswater Springs, I turn in my seat and ask, “What’s that supposed to mean, Sloane? I was there. Felt your thighs go all tight on me when I tugged your hair. Heard you moan when I kissed you. Are we going to sit here and keep pretending that things don’t feel different between us now?”

“They’ve always felt this way for me!” she explodes, arms flung wide, eyes shining with emotion. “And you’ve never noticed. But now you do? What am I supposed to do? Jump for joy and say thank you for blessing me with your interest?”