Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(61)

“Penn,” I say as his lips find mine.

All. Thoughts. Cease.

He jerks me forward so there’s nothing between us but the clothes on our bodies. His fingers skim the skin beneath the hem of my shirt, leaving a trail of electricity behind. My nipples bead against the pressure of his chest tight against them.

The hardness of his body is a glorious juxtaposition of the gentleness of his lips, and I think I might die in this moment, in this house, and in his arms.

His palms drag against the sides of my body, skin on skin. His hands are rough from holding lumber all day but handle me with such care that my legs go weak.

I run my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to me. He tastes sweet, like soda, and smells like everything I’ve ever wanted.

I’m here for this. Checklist be damned. To hell with my internal voice and the bruises from people who didn’t deserve my time.

This is where I want to be.

“Penn,” I whisper as our kiss breaks.

He kisses across the side of my face, along my jaw, and behind my ear. I angle my body to try to get some contact with my clit because I think I might explode.

His hair slips through my fingers as I close my eyes and feel him kissing along my shoulder. Cool air wraps around my body as my shirt is caught in his arm and pulled toward my shoulder.

I’m ready to volunteer to remove it altogether when he pulls away.

His eyes are wild, his breath as uneven as mine. He steps back and looks at me like he’s just seeing me for the first time.

My heart races, adrenaline filling my body as I take in the bewildered look on his face.

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong, and I have no idea what it is.

I tug my shirt back down. “What’s going on?”

He runs his hands over his head, a look of confusion painted across his gorgeous face.

A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I fight the bile that’s threatening to come up my throat.

My mind is on overdrive, re-creating the last few seconds and trying to figure out where things went wrong. But there’s nothing I can come up with, and he’s not answering me.

“Penn?”

“Um, you have some paint on your face,” he says. He tugs at his hair before dropping his hands to his sides. “I have to meet Matt in a couple of minutes. I forgot. Can I call you later?”

“Yeah,” I say, making the word into a three-syllable answer. “Sure.”

He nods and heads toward the door.

I follow in a state of pure confusion. There are so many questions popping into my head as my brain turns back on—so many that I don’t know where to start.

Rejection begins to take over as he swings the door open like he’s dismissing me. It’s as if he got what he wanted, or discovered he really didn’t want it to start with, and is just clicking the off button.

Fuck that.

He swings the door open. “I’ll call you.”

I nod, untrusting of my voice or the feeling of pressure on the bridge of my nose. I won’t cry. Not in front of him.

He stands still as I walk out. I don’t bother to look up at him or tell him not to call. He won’t. I’m not sure I want him to right now, anyway.

Climbing into the car, I catch the door to the house closing in my peripheral vision. His overt lie about Matt ripples through my brain, and a dose of humiliation washes over me.

I realize I’m not going to make it to Harper’s.

Tears stream down my face as I look at the closed door with confusion.

“Guess I couldn’t look at you that way, but you can me, huh?”

With tears trickling onto my shirt, I back out onto the street and head home.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PENN

W hat. The. Actual. Fuck?

The engine roars as I hammer it up Matt’s road. I didn’t call ahead to warn him I’m coming—or to warn him I’m coming with this kind of attitude. He won’t be pleased, but neither am I at the moment.

There has to be some logical explanation for the pair of dice on Avery’s side. I’m not good at logic or math, but Matt is. I just need to calm down and wait for him to give me the odds and prove that Avery Perry is not Abby.

Why would she lie to me? Then or now?

How stupid do I look right now?

I slam the steering wheel with the palm of my hand.

“This is why you don’t actually like people,” I tell myself. “They never are who they say they are.”

I think of all the things I’ve told her, how I half-assed broke down about my dad, and wonder what she was thinking. Wow, this guy still has daddy issues ten years later.

Fuck.

I slide my truck against the curb. The rubber squeals at the contact, but I don’t care. I hop out and make my way up Matt’s sidewalk like a wounded badger, ready to fight. He must have heard my truck because the door opens before I even get there.

“This is gonna be fun,” he grumbles. “What happened? And why are you covered in paint?”

I storm in. The door shuts behind me.

“Do you need a beer?” he asks.

“I don’t know what I motherfucking need.”

“Beer it is. Follow me.”

We make it to the kitchen. As he rummages around his fridge, the disbelief starts to turn more into anger. And embarrassment.