Crossing the Line (Pushing the Limits #1.1)(4)

My head snaps up. But I’m not in love with you. The words catch in my mouth. His green eyes shine and his face completely lights up. What do I honestly know about love? Obviously nothing after what’s happened with Lincoln. “I don’t know.”

Why is that the only phrase I seem capable of saying?

His fingers spread out as he raises his hands. “That’s good enough. For now. Look, I’ve got to get to work, but I’m serious—if you get freaked staying by yourself, call. Mom and Dad won’t care if I stay with you.”

I suck in a breath to try to explain to him that I need to do this on my own, but before I can form the first word Stephen plants a kiss on my cheek and strides out the front door.

I blink a few times, trying to let my mind process the turn of events. “Crap.”

In the span of minutes, Stephen managed to drag me back into high school. Wasn’t this drama supposed to end when I received my diploma?

Three quick raps on the door and a surge of angry adrenaline pumps in my veins. Good. He’s back. Now I can really tell him what I think about him staying the night and implying that I’m not strong. Forget the fact he’s possibly right. No guy should ever call me a coward.

With a particularly hard yank, I throw open the front door and yell, “You really are a jerk, you know?”

All the air rushes out of my lungs in a fast hiss. It’s not Stephen. No. Not at all. This guy has hair the color of midnight. He’s tall, built like no guy I’ve ever dated before—in an oh, hell yeah sort of way—and possesses soft blue eyes that entice me to hold him already. And he’s clutching a bouquet. Roses. Purple ones.

Something nags me from the back of my brain. Then I remember that I’m required to speak. “Can I help you?”

He shifts his footing, shoving one hand into his faded jeans. “It’s me, Lila.”

Me? “Sorry?”

“Lincoln.”

I really should have taken my mother’s advice on the peephole.

Lincoln

I know I should stop gushing about the card you sent for my birthday, but I can’t. See, Stephen forgot about my birthday. It’s cool. Really. He remembered eventually, and bought me roses, but I need to complain. I know I’m going to sound like a snot, but he got me red roses.

Red. Whenever I see red roses I think of my grandma’s funeral, and then I want to cry. I’ve told Stephen that—twice.

I’ve dropped hint after hint that purple are my favorites. Of course, I told him that I loved his present and gushed about it, but what do I need to do? Tattoo it on my forehead? Purple!!!

Or at least not red.

Here’s the reason why I don’t care about Stephen forgetting: you made my birthday special. No one has ever made me a card before. So thanks, Lincoln. Sometimes I think you’re my best friend.

~ Lila

She’s stunning. Yeah, she was drop-dead gorgeous two years ago, but now...

I’m staring and I need to stop, but seeing her inhibits brain function. Girls don’t know it, but standing in the presence of beauty impairs guys. At least, it impairs me.

Screw it. It’s Lila. Lila impairs me.

The ends of her golden hair curl near her shoulders. She cut it and I like the new style. A lot. When I first met Lila, she was between—not quite a girl, not really a woman. With those curves, she left between in the dust.

I was only a few inches taller than her then. I grew. She stayed the same height. Lila would fit perfectly under my arm, tucked close into my body. She let me hold her hand the night we met, and I never forgot how her skin felt like satin. I hope she’ll let me touch her again.

That is, if she can forgive me.

Her bewildered sky blue eyes travel along my face, over my arms and chest. Crimson stains her cheeks as she prevents herself from checking out anything lower. I clear my throat to disguise the chuckle.

I want to laugh because she looks so damned cute, but she wouldn’t see it that way. She’d think I was belittling her. Lila can’t tolerate guys who view women as beneath them. I received more than one letter from her with that rant.

Lila’s house sits in the middle of nowhere. Its zip code exists in the city of Louisville, but acreage borders three sides of her house and across the street is a state park. The only beings watching me beg for her forgiveness on the wraparound front porch are the crickets and God.

It’s better this way. I’m not a people person.

Her blessed pink lips pucker to form a w and then flatten. She repeats the cycle three more times until she finally decides on a word beginning with h. “How did you find me?”

“Google.”

She gives me the you’re-crazy stare.

“Maps.” Very awkward pause. “I know your address by heart.”

The worry lines on her forehead disappear as the lightbulb turns on. “But you live...”

“Ten hours away. Yeah, I know.”

“Twelve, actually,” she mutters.

My world blanks out for a second. Does that mean she calculated the distance between us too? “I didn’t exactly adhere to recommended motor vehicle regulations.”

Her mouth twitches; she’s well aware I’ve never been a fan of rules. “You sped.”

“I bent suggested limits.”

The blush fades, leaving her cheeks pale. “Is that how you view what you did to me?”