She tastes so sweet, so perfect, and my cock strains against my jeans as I lean her back against the shingled roof.
Then, her eyes shoot open, hands pressing into my chest and shoving hard.
“Oh, my God.” She bolts upright, tearing away from me when I try to reach for her to soothe the shame and worry evident in her eyes now.
“It’s okay,” I try, but she shakes her head.
“It’s most definitely not okay, Greg.” She looks at me, pinning her bottom lip between her teeth with her gaze falling to my lips like she wants to kiss me again.
Do it, I silently dare her.
But she buries her face in her hands with something between a laugh and a groan.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. She peeks up at me then, guilt shading her cheeks. “God, that was really messed up. I shouldn’t have done that. You’re my son’s friend and eighteen, for Christ’s sake.”
That makes her bury her face again, and I grind my teeth, feeling like my age is a curse for the first time in my life. Everyone around me, my parents especially, preach all the time how much I should soak up this time in my life, how thankful I should be for my youth and freedom.
Right now, I’d give it all up just for the chance to have Amanda Parks take me seriously and let me kiss her again.
Her head snaps up, eyes wide. “Shit,” she says, looking at me. She shakes her head, over and over. “Greg, we can’t… no one can ever know about this.”
I frown against how that stings for me, how my chest aches with the insult, but I nod. “No one ever will.”
She nods, gratitude in her eyes, and then she sighs, wrapping her arms around her legs again.
And I fight the urge to pull her back into my arms, instead.
CHAPTER THREE
AMANDA
“Mom, please, sit down.”
“I’m just tidying up a bit,” I tell David, cringing when I realize no amount of tidying could be done to save the catastrophe that is my house with just minutes to spare before Greg Weston gets here.
I hastily throw the dishes in the dishwasher and start shoving anything on the kitchen counters into the nearest cabinet as my son chuckles.
“You are the definition of a hot mess.”
“That’s not nice to say to your mother.”
“It is when it’s the truth.”
I smile at that, leaning a hip against the counter and wincing a little, hand covering my upper rib cage. “You’re lucky you’re too big for me to spank you anymore.”
“Remember the first time you spanked me and instead of crying, I laughed, because it didn’t hurt anymore?”
I give him a look. “I do. I remember coming very close to strangling my child.”
He laughs, and I do, too, before I’m wincing again, which makes David come to my side.
“I wish I would have been there with you when you were in surgery,” he says, taking me by the elbow and leading me into our living room. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“I called you as soon as the drugs wore off enough for me to remember I even have a son,” I remind him. “Besides, there was nothing you could do other than waste your own time sitting there in a stuffy hospital.”
“I could have been there when the doctor told you what to do and what not to do once you left,” he argues, helping me sit on the couch. “Because I’m pretty sure you weren’t listening at all when he gave those directions.”
I shrug noncommittally.
David sighs. “My mother. Acting more like my child these days.”
“Paybacks are a bitch, my son.”
That earns me a chuckle, and then David picks up where I left off, folding blankets and tidying up the living room space.
I take in his features, how my little boy has grown into a man right before my eyes, all the while trying to ignore the fact that Greg Weston is on his way over. It wasn’t my choice to invite him, but I also didn’t argue very hard when David said he was coming — mostly because I didn’t know how to not make it weird by voicing my concern. Greg has been in our house hundreds of times before, why would I care if he came now?
Oh, that’s right.
Because he’s not an eighteen-year-old, off-limits boy anymore, and my soon-to-be ex-husband doesn’t live here anymore, and somehow those two facts make having him in near proximity a whole lot more dangerous.
I’ve spent the better part of this week trying to rest, and heal, and forget about the fact that my son’s high school friend was my anesthesiologist, and that he’s even hotter now than he was then. I found it hard enough to see him as a kid when he was eighteen, but now?
He’s older than I was when we first met.
And damn, has he aged well.
A knock at the door makes me jump. David’s eyes light up, and he all but jogs to the door, swinging it open and beaming like a little kid when Greg walks through the frame. They stare at each other with matching smiles for a long moment before David opens his arms wide, and Greg chuckles, the two of them meeting each other in a crushing embrace, hands clapping on shoulders like the two grown men they are.
“I’ll be damned,” David says when they pull back, looking up at Greg. “Greg Weston. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again.”
“To be fair, I wasn’t sure I’d see anyone ever again when I was in med school.”
David chuckles. “Akin to prison, eh?”
“Pretty damn close,” Greg jokes.
I try to laugh, but it gets caught in my throat, and I just stand there at the edge of the couch stupidly watching them and smoothing my hands over my dress.
“You went and outgrew me, you sonofabitch,” David says.
“Language, David.”
He frowns at me. “You just said bitch to me! Like, two minutes ago.”
“I’m an adult. I’m allowed to say bitch.”
He levels a gaze at me, and Greg laughs.
“I see nothing has changed here,” he comments, and I don’t know if he means between me and my son, or the house itself. If it’s the latter, he’s mistaken, because while the bones and most of the décor haven’t changed much over the years, the state of the foundation has. Between the plumbing, the HVAC, and the continual cycle of something breaking, me fixing it, only to have something break again… it’s nothing like the house Josh and I bought when we were kids.
Then again, I’m nothing like the girl who bought it, either.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. P—” Greg stops short of finishing that last name, and he cringes, shaking his head just one quick time before he forces a smile. “Amanda.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Technically, it is still Mrs. Parks, but not for much longer.”
Greg offers a little smile at that, and David scratches his neck before motioning to the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll fix us a drink.”
“I don’t drink, actually, but I’ll take a water.”
“You don’t drink,” David repeats with a laugh. “Since when?”
Greg’s eyes flick to me then, and a flash of that hot summer night hits me like a frying pan to the head.