IN A FLASH, BASH IS ON ME.

His hands on my waist. His hips pressed against mine. His lips claiming my mouth.

My head spins, my body surging to catch up with him. Sure, I’d been taunting him, but I really didn’t know if he had it in him to pounce.

There’s nothing soft or seeking about the way he kisses me. He ravages me. We attack each other with fervor. A desperate moan vibrates in my throat as I kiss him back. My palms slide up his chest, squeezing his shoulders, fingers trailing over the back of his neck before slipping into his hair.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tangling with mine as he turns us roughly, shoving me against the porch railing before his hands drop, gripping my ass. He squeezes once, a hungry groan spilling from his lips as he grinds his hard length against me in one sensual rotation of his hips.

“Fuck yes,” I murmur, hiking a leg up around his waist. Desperate for more.

His broad palm slides over the curve of my ass, gliding under my thigh while he continues to kiss me senseless. He grinds against me, and it’s all too easy to imagine us. Like this. With nothing between us. I lose myself to the fantasy. There’s a desperate edge to our kiss—it’s the first drink of cool, fresh water after months stranded in the desert.

“Again,” I beg against his lips, wanting another feel of his cock pressing against my core.

For a moment, I think he’s going to give me what I want. He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me on the railing, stepping between my legs.

But then he pulls back to take me in with dazed eyes. My lips feel swollen and my body hot as his scorching gaze rakes over me, leaving a path of fire in its wake.

“Fucking look at you,” he says, his breathing labored. “Fucking perfect. And so fucking off-limits.”

I reach forward, tugging the front of his plaid jacket. “I’m not off-limits.”

He lets out a gruff chuckle. “Yeah. You are.”

Bash’s fingers grip me hard, pulling me tight against his front. He kisses my neck, teeth grazing over my jaw. I shudder, pressing my chest into him. Wanting more. The feel of his stubble on my throat. His hands on me. My clothes feel too constricting, too hot. I want them off. I want him to take them off.

I try to explain myself, wanting so desperately for Tripp to not be a factor. “We were never really a thing. And we’ve been over for—”

“That poor kid waxed poetic about you all night,” Bash cuts me off, speaking between languid kisses down my chest, his tongue darting out over the tops of my breasts. “For all the wrong reasons but still. I had to sit there and pat his back over it. And do you know what I was thinking about the entire time?”

I blink. I had no clue Tripp was still upset over our breakup. “What’s that?”

“That he was a fool to let you get away. But that it was just as well because I could fuck you better.”

I suck in a breath as Bash’s dark eyes bore into mine.

“Listening to him talk about you made me want to come home and take you just to prove to myself that I could. Does that make me jealous, Gwen?”

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I lick my lips, meeting his wild gaze. “I think it does.”

His hand slides up my side, palming every curve before slipping to the back of my head and fisting my hair. “And what the hell am I supposed to do about that, huh?”

The way he manhandles me with such authority has my body fucking singing. Begging.

I wiggle my hips closer, panting.

“What am I supposed to do with you, Gwen? We’re just starting to figure this thing out. He’ll never forgive me if I do this. I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.”

Then let’s be damned together is what I want to say. But the tug of one strand of hair provides just enough of a sting that reality finds its way into the lust-filled moment. One tendril sneaking through a crack.

My chest hurts for him. I know in my bones that he’s trapped in an impossible position—we both are. And that if I’m the one who pushes him to act against his better judgment, he’ll hold me responsible when it all blows up.

I can’t ask him to make this mess. Not when he’ll have to face the fallout. It means he has to be the one who doesn’t care. He has to come to me and say mess be damned.

But Bash cares a lot. Beneath that stony exterior, he has the biggest heart.

It’s one thing I’ve come to love about him.

Which is why I won’t stomp all over his morals just to get what I want. It’s also why I draw away. He reads the motion, eyes shuttering as his hands go loose and he steps back.

It hurts my heart that he reads everything as rejection. It’s written all over him.

“Bash…”

“No.” He shakes his head, looking away. “No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

He sighs, sounding tired, and runs a large hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in clear frustration. “What were you going to say, then?”

“I was going to say that I don’t want to be the thing that damns you. It’s not fair.”

His eyes search mine, flitting from left to right. He’s probing for something, and I’m not sure he finds it.

Finally, he steps all the way back, leaving me chilled and missing his nearness.

“No, it’s really not,” he says before turning and walking away from me.

Again.

And me? I do us both a favor: I walk inside and respond to the job offer from the resort in Costa Rica.

I tell them I’ll be ready to start on August first.

The heavy weight of dread presses on my chest before I’ve even opened my eyes.

My run-in with Bash last night kept me awake. Tossing, turning, thinking. Wishing that things were different.

But I know, from the moment my lashes flutter open, I’ll be faced with the reality that nothing is different at all.

The day will start, the sun will rise, everything about Bash and me will feel just as impossible as it did when he left me on the back porch last night. But now I have an end date in sight, so at least I know there’s a way out.

When I do finally brave lifting my lids, I’m proven right. There’s a heavy stone in my stomach and a weight on my chest that I can’t seem to shake. I know I should head downstairs and be the chipper, happy, go-with-the-flow version of Gwen that everybody expects.

But this morning, I don’t feel like that version of myself.

I’d rather hide—from reality, from the fact that I basically served myself up to Bash on a silver platter. A man who clearly wants me, yet I still backed down.

I spent half the night figuring out whether I turned him away for some deeper reason. Of course, the constant worry that I’m not good enough sat on my shoulder in the dark, sabotaging me as always. But more than that, I realized that if it had been any other man, I wouldn’t have retreated at all. The difference is, I like Bash—I really like Bash. And I don’t want to damn him with my carelessness. Deep down I know this isn’t some meaningless fling.

It scares me. And the thought of losing him scares me too.

Still, I drag myself from bed and start my day, stalling at every turn to avoid what’s waiting downstairs. I take my time, even roll my yoga mat out on the front balcony, hoping a few sun salutations will provide some semblance of balance before I have to face Bash downstairs. And Clyde, in front of whom I’ll have to continue pretending that nothing is off.

I flow through the poses, feeling every stretch, every ache, and every tender spot. I let myself sink into it, not pushing too far, not letting my mind wander too much. Just feeling my body, feeling the air, and feeling all the complicated emotions coursing through me.

Just when I think I’ve found a little corner in my brain that resembles balance, I’m thrown off by a voice that I recognize all too well.

One that sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

Tripp.

Low rumbles of conversation between him and Bash drift from the front door. I catch the odd occasional clear word: “swing by… coffee… come on in.”

Before I know it, the click of the front door closing ends the conversation, making facing what’s downstairs even worse. Eventually, I’ve primped, changed my clothes, read a chapter of my book, and done everything I can think of to avoid making my descent.

Until my phone buzzes with a text.

Clyde: Will you make me those special scrambled eggs? You do them the best.

Alas, my tenure as a burrowing owl has ended. Because the man paying me to help actually requires my help. Maybe if things get awkward downstairs, I can try my hand at impersonating a fainting goat.

I tell Clyde I’m on my way and force a smile onto my face as I head out of my room. The bitter aroma of coffee wafts up to meet me, and the sound of low voices conversing filters in my ears. I make my way downstairs, and right before I enter the kitchen, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket to see another message from Clyde. When I click it open, I laugh.

Clyde: I can’t believe you dated this guy. He’s a full-blown douchebag.

I can’t help but smile down at the screen as I type back. Clyde isn’t wrong. Tripp isn’t all bad—people usually aren’t—but when that less-charming side comes out to play it is very… less charming.

Gwen: I know. 

I hit send, wipe the humor from my features, and shove my phone into my back pocket. Then I plaster another fake smile onto my face and round the corner into the kitchen as I singsong an overly bright “Good morning!” to everyone in the room.

Tripp’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.

Bash scowls at him and then at me.

And Clyde just leans back in his chair, shaking his head with an amused smirk on his face.

Yeah, he’s getting far too much enjoyment out of this.

“Gwen,” Bash replies matter-of-factly, tipping his chin once in my direction. It’s a simple, no-nonsense, no-feelings, I-never-told-you-I-could-fuck-you-better-than-your-ex type of gesture.

Tripp gives me a smooth “Hey, Gwen, you look beautiful this morning.”

It takes monumental effort not to roll my eyes.

I can feel Bash’s energy without even looking at him. It’s a flashing red light. I finally brave looking over at him and can read him like a page out of my favorite book. He hates everything about this situation.

But he’ll never say anything.

Clyde, on the other hand, looks me straight in the eye and announces, “This one can’t stay in my bunker when the apocalypse hits.”

Tripp misses the sentiment entirely, laughing like Clyde is joking.

Leaned against the counter, Bash doesn’t laugh.

I take a moment to figure out my next move, how to act naturally. Keep it casual. I try to not to let my eyes linger on Bash for too long or give too much away.

But it’s hard.

Especially when he’s wearing something that looks like a uniform right now.

Navy-blue cargo pants hug his thighs in a way that I should not be openly admiring. Above a utilitarian black belt, strapped around his narrow waist, a matching navy T-shirt stretches across his broad chest. A crest printed with BC Fire Service sits over his heart.

At his feet, a duffel bag.

My heart lurches.

He’s leaving.

When I drag my vision back up to his level, I blurt, “Why are you dressed like that?” When I really mean You have no right looking so good wearing that or even Please don’t go.

“Fire,” he says gruffly. “Got the call early this morning. Heading out right away.”

My brows furrow. “Are you cleared to work?”

Bash just shrugs. “Close enough. I’ll be sitting in a plane, not doing anything on the ground. I’ve taken a few weeks off since the surgery and I flew with Tripp the other day, no problem, so I don’t need you being a mother hen about it.”

I bristle at that and clamp my molars together to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. Clearly, we’re back to the be-an-asshole-as-a-defense-mechanism strategy that he tried to employ the night before.

But I’m not in the mood to play that game. I don’t hide the venom in my tone either. “Fair. Not my monkeys, not my circus.” Then I turn to Clyde and point. “You are my monkey, and this is my circus, and I’m here to make you your scrambled eggs. Right?”

Clyde eyes me suspiciously as Tripp inserts himself into our conversation. “I may not be your monkey anymore, but I’d really like to be part of this circus too.”

He says it so affably, so smoothly. But I know that’s how he is. I know how calculated he can be. I know how fake he can be.

Clyde shoots Tripp a dirty look and crosses his arms, but he says nothing else.

Not even when Tripp adds, “Maybe I could take you to lunch later, Gwen? Or dinner? Before I leave tomorrow?”

From the corner of my eye, I see Bash go eerily still.

In fact, it feels like everyone in the kitchen goes still. Suddenly, the attention on me feels hot and heavy, like something I’d like to peel off and escape.

All three men wait with bated breath for what I might say. I blink once, then twice, weighing how best to respond to his public request.

There’s nothing like being asked out by your ex-boyfriend in front of his dad, who you were making out with not twelve hours earlier.

But before I can respond, Bash makes a move. He drops his cup into the sink with a loud rattle before pushing off the counter. Muscles bulge in his arms, flexing in time with the tendons in his neck.

He dusts his hands together like he’s removing some invisible dirt from them, definitely trying to appear more relaxed than he truly is. “Well, on that note,” he announces, “I’m going to hit the road. Get out of your hair. This grass fire in northern Alberta is moving quickly. Time is of the essence and all that.” He smiles tightly, avoiding meeting my eyes, before grabbing his bag and striding out. I watch him leave the kitchen, heart limping along until it falls with a heavy lurch at my feet.

A part of me wants to rush after him, assure him that nothing’s happening here, that nothing will happen here, but he’s off and moving before I can get a word in edgewise.

He doesn’t even look back at me, taking my breath with him as he goes.

“I’ll see you out,” Tripp says, jumping into motion and walking his dad toward the front door of his own house.

I hear them exchange gruff goodbyes along with the back slaps that come with those manly, one-armed hugs. It makes me wonder if that’s the first hug they’ve ever really exchanged.

Before I hear the front door even click closed behind Bash, Tripp calls back to the kitchen, “So what do you say, Gwen? How about that lunch?”

God, I wish he’d knock that off.

I hurry toward the front foyer, not wanting Bash to leave with the impression that I’d go out with Tripp again after everything that’s happened between us. As I round the corner, I say, “You know, I actually…” But the door slams.

Hard.

Hard enough that Tripp turns and furrows his brows toward where Bash just stood, as though he can’t figure out what that was all about.

All I can think is that Bash has left. We never got a chance to talk. I don’t even know how long he’ll be gone for. Suddenly, him leaving to fly a plane into a fire feels monumentally dangerous.

Suddenly, I miss him.

Suddenly, I regret accepting that job offer.

And even though he’s not here to hear it, I look Tripp in the eye and tell him bluntly, “I think it’s better if we don’t.”