She’s in my arms, and my hand is in her hair, holding her close.
Hair that is crazy soft and smells like damn strawberries.
Then she tips her head up to mine, and I see it on her face.
She feels it.
The pull.
The demand that I hold her close, to make her mine.
To kiss her.
My head dips down as hers tips up, my lips not on hers, but we’re breathing the same damn air.
Finally.
Fucking finally.
It’s like a part of me that has been hers from the beginning is dancing in excitement, in joy.
A part I refused to ever acknowledge.
But then she says it.
The words are breathy, whispered.
“Zander, you have a girl.” My gut drops because she’s not wrong. There’s a girl I’ve been dating casually for a few weeks. Nothing serious, but still . . . there’s a girl.
I should step back.
I should let her go.
But my hand stays in her hair.
I keep staring at her, reading her eyes, letting her read mine.
“Zoe, you say the word and she’s gone. Say the word and I’m yours,” I whisper, and I mean it.
In the moment, I can’t even think of the girl I’ve been casually dating’s name.
Long moments pass as her breaths cross my lips, as I plead with her to just say fucking yes.
To end this game we’ve been playing our whole lives once and for all.
“You should go home, Zee,” she says, and with her words, my hand loosens in her hair. “Thank you. For helping me.”
And I left.
Because the poor girl had already been traumatized enough without her best friend’s older brother trying something on her.
But I never tried again, be it because of my bruised ego or shitty timing, I’ll never know.
But I do know that after that, Zoe was different. She was refined, dressed more muted. That’s when she started wearing those stupid ponytails and frying her hair until it was pin-straight every single day.
That’s when she started dating stupid men, men who were safe, men who her dad liked well enough, men her mom would have over for one of her extravagant dinners.
But never men that, when she brought them to family events, lit her entire face up. Never men who, when they pulled her in close, her eyes smiled like he was telling her an inside joke without words.
Not like how she does with me.
And because of that, I know I won’t be making the same mistake twice.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I’M ONLY ME WHEN I’M WITH YOU
-ZANDER-
The next day, it rained all morning, which, for a road trip, is shitty, but, for what I have planned tonight, is great because that means the clouds will be gone by then, leaving clear skies.
It also means it wasn’t hard to convince Zoe to lie in bed for the majority of the day.
Wins all around.
For the majority of yesterday, she had gone further into herself, clearly overthinking what had happened the night before, trying to figure out how it could fit into her chaotic, unbearably suffocating life plan.
I let her have that. Because no matter what, this is right. This is good. It might not fit into her perfect picture of what her life should be and what others want her life to look like, but it’s right.
Because really, I’m coming to understand that’s Zoe’s problem.
She has absolutely no vision for how she wants her life to look, how she wants her life to go, other than how she wants others to perceive her.
Every move she’s made in both her professional and personal life has been with her parents in mind. How they would see that move, whether it would make them proud, whether it would be impressive enough.
Except, she doesn’t see how her parents just want her healthy and happy.
So I gave Zoe the car ride yesterday, letting her be quiet and introspective, and then I reminded her that night and all day today what it’s like to be together.
For us to be together.
Because it’s fucking perfect.
We can lie in bed and laugh all day about dumb, insignificant things, spend hours reminiscing on our shared pasts.
She moans my name and has my cock hard in just a fraction of a second.
It’s perfect.
And now we’re setting out to the next step in my plan to show Zoe just how good we are together.
“It’s getting dark. Should we find a hotel or something?” Zoe asks, staring out at the darkening sky as we drive.
“Nope,” I say with a smile.
“No?”
“Nope.”
“Do you have a hotel in mind already?” she asks, looking at me confused.
“We’re not staying in a hotel tonight, Zoe.”
When I glance over at her, I laugh at the look of nerves, shock, and just a hint of irritation.
“Zander—” I stop her before she gets too frustrated.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“That’s not the point. I like a hot shower.”
“And you’ll get one tomorrow. I think I’d actually like to join you in that.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the touch of red that hits her cheeks. “Fuck, you wanna do that?”
“I would be more than happy to do that tonight,” she says, a hint of irritation and something hotter simmering in her words.
I almost rethink my plan for a split second.
I almost turn around, pull into the nearest hotel, and drag her inside.
But I have a plan.
We have daydreams to live out, after all.
“Not tonight.”
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry about it, Zoe.” She lets out an irritated huff that has me fighting a smile.
“I can’t stand you.”
“That’s not even close to the truth,” I say, letting that smile out but continuing to take her to our destination,
A few minutes pass when she sighs. I look over at her and see she’s biting her lip, playing with the frayed edge of her shirt.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t like this.” The words come through gritted teeth. She’s clearly uncomfortable, and something is off.
“You don’t like what?” My heart drops, wondering if she means this as in us.
God, when did I get so soft? When did my every moment of contentment boil down to Zoe Thomas?
Probably a long fucking time ago, I think to myself. So long I can’t even pinpoint it.
“I don’t like not knowing.” I glance over and stare at her.
“What?”
“I don’t like not knowing,” she says. The words are terse, annoyed, like she doesn’t want to admit them.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t like not knowing!” Her voice gets higher, and I feel my eyes widen. I want to ask more, but instead, I wait. Wait for her to expand. And she does because she’s Zoe and I know her better than she thinks I do. “I don’t like not knowing what the plan is. I don’t like . . . spontaneity. It gives me anxiety.”
I keep my eyes on the road, mulling that over.
“That must be new.”
Her head turns to me.