Or important.
Rounding the front, he was inside and pulling into traffic before either spoke again. In fact, neither spoke as he headed northbound out of East Hampton, Chloe not caring where he was taking her.
She was with him. In an enclosed space. His presence surrounding her.
The truck smelled new, but with his underlying masculine scent mixed in. Spicy, woodsy. It was spotlessly clean, just like the truck he drove a decade ago, thirty years older than this model but as lovingly maintained.
“This is a nice truck,” she said, touching the buttery soft leather interior. “It suits you.”
Rugged and durable, but beautiful too.
“Thanks,” he answered absently. And in another surprise move, reached for her hand.
Threading their fingers together, palm to palm, he steered with one hand and rested their clasped fists on the center console. As if he had no intention of ever letting go.
A few miles passed while she stared at their entwined hands, his warm and confident, hers shaky and uncertain. He noticed, smiled, then lifted them to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.
A tender touch from a tough man.
“I wanted to give you space,” he said in sudden explanation. “Figured hate sex meant I leave when it’s done, and I don’t come back unless invited.”
“That’s why you avoided me all weekend? Hate sex protocol?”
He tilted his head. “Mostly.”
“And partially?” she led, but when he went quiet on her, his eyes on the empty road ahead, she smirked. “Never mind. Keep it to yourself. I don’t care.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
Chloe stared out at the gorgeous late summer scenery, the Atlantic spread out to their right, the landscape on their left dotted with random houses and tourist traps. She knew this road well, had traveled it many times, but had no idea why he was taking her to Montauk.
Years ago, they did this. Got in his old truck and drove. For hours, they cruised the highways and back roads of The Hamptons, going nowhere. Passing the time talking endlessly, about nothing and everything, simply enjoying the company.
During some of those long rides, they spent the time deciding which movie to watch once they got back to Maine Lane.
During others, they spent the time deciding what to name her bakery once they got settled into base housing. What to name the children who would come a few years after that.
He dropped more money on tanks of gas and roadside food stands than she knew he probably had, but he never made it seem inconvenient. Never asked her to chip in. Never guilted her or looked down on her as privileged, even though she was.
Genevieve ensured everyone in town knew she came from wealth. Money equaled power, of course, and how could people know you were powerful unless you showed them? Luxury homes, expensive cars, and the finest of all the shit in the land.
Shit that didn’t make you happy.
Eating canned soup so she could pay her mortgage made her happy. Sleeping on that lumpy mattress made her happy.
Yes, she could afford a few hundred bucks to replace it. She chose not to.
It reminded her where he came from. The blue-collar boy she fell in desperate, unlikely love with. It reminded her where she wanted to be. Back with that boy, and still as desperately in love. Unlikely.
Maine Lane. Something Borrowed. Riverhead. She’d give it all up in a heartbeat, if it meant she had him—the man holding her hand.
Almighty God in heaven, forgive her, she prayed. Because she’d give up Riverhead all over again to be with Jameson in that base housing, with a lumpy mattress on the bed and canned soup in the cupboard.
She’d give him up for love, as she had once before.
This time, though, for Jameson’s, not hers.
Slowing down as they entered the city limits of Montauk, he turned right, heading toward the water and the shops along the harbor. When he pulled into the parking lot of Montauk Dive Shop and turned off the engine, surveying their surroundings curiously, she snorted.
“Um, if you think I’m strapping on a wetsuit and a respirator, you’ve lost your mind. I’d rather you claw me to death in the woods and call it a bear attack than make it look like a diving accident.”
He laughed, grabbing his phone and wallet from the console, but she didn’t share his amusement.
“No. Seriously. Deep water is scary. I cannot breathe underwater. Anyone who goes underwater, tank of oxygen or not, is a certified lunatic.”
“Are you calling me crazy?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded vigorously. “Yep. Sure am.”
She tightened her seat belt, a clear sign she wasn’t willingly leaving this truck.
He, apparently, had no such qualms, walking around the vehicle and opening her door. He leaned in close to unbuckle her belt himself. At close range, his dark eyes filled with something too unlikely to be true.
Desperate love.
“You really wanna know the partial part?” he murmured. “Why I stayed away all weekend?”
She nodded, waiting. Hoping.
“I was having a hard time admitting to myself that you are, still to this fucking day, the hottest pussy I’ve ever had.”
Okay, at least that was positive.
Not what she’d been going for, but beggars and all.
“As a lady, how do I respond to that?” She never broke eye contact, knowing what her intense gaze showed him. Desperate love. “Do I tell you that you are, if I was under oath in a court of law, my hand on a stack of bibles, the hardest cock I’ve ever had?”
“Is it true?” His mouth brushed hers, a butterfly kiss meant to tease. When she nodded, he grinned. A devil’s grin. The one that made her ragingly wet. “But not the biggest? C’mon, you know it’s the biggest.”
She laughed and squealed in delight when he wrapped her in his strong arms and lifted her out of the truck, the action one smooth, skilled move.
She hung on, even as he set her on the ground.
“The baddest, boldest, biggest . . . ever,” she confirmed. And I still love you. So desperately it hurts.
But she didn’t say it. She couldn’t.
Because hot pussy didn’t equal true love.
“Do you have kids?” Jesus, why did she blurt that out? And in the middle of a busy parking lot!
His face went ashen. “What?”
She’d come this far, no backing down now. “You don’t have anyone in your bed. But that doesn’t mean you’re not someone’s dad.”
His jaw locked. “Are you messing with me?”
“No. I’m genuinely curious.”
He scoffed, seeming at a loss. And looking incredibly hurt by the question.
“Fuck you, Chloe.” His harsh whisper was followed by a harsher kiss, their lips sealed for several seconds.
“Do you have a kid?” he asked roughly, once he released her.
“I wish.” And then she smiled. A watery, wistful smile that he returned.
“Let’s go inside.” He nodded toward the entrance of the dive shop, his anger disappearing as fast as it came. “Before I really do take you out into the woods and murder you.”
Locking the truck, he grabbed her hand, entwining their fingers.
“Jesus, didn’t Genevieve teach you etiquette? We’re having a good time, aren’t we? Wait to fire your weapon until I’m in asshole mode, will ya?”