Heat Wave

“It’s easier for you to hate me then to like me, isn’t it?”


“You’re an easy person to hate!” I fire back. “That’s on you.”

I try and get out of his grasp.

He doesn’t let go.

He’s staring at me so intently that I’m nearly pinned to the ground.

“Charlotte,” he says slowly, “was a friend of mine. I knew she had a crush on me and she was a nice girl. It took a year and a half after Juliet died for me to finally agree to a date. We went on three. That was all. I went back to being alone. She went and found someone else. Eventually she quit her job and moved in with him. Everyone was fine.” His grip on my arm tightens. “I did not cheat on Juliet with Charlotte.”

How diplomatic, I think to myself, not denying he didn’t cheat on her, just denying he cheated on her with this Charlotte woman.

“But,” he goes on, “the more excuses you can find to hate me, to bury your attraction to me, the better.”

God, I want to punch in his smug, handsome face so fucking bad!

“You’re a dick,” I say bitterly. “A dick with an unstoppable ego.”

“Or maybe an ego with an unstoppable dick. But no, that thought won’t help you, will it?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’ve said that already and nothing’s happened.”

I try and wriggle out of his grasp again.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says. “Until you tell me I’m right.”

“About what? That I’m attracted to you?”

He hauls me closer to him, so our faces are just inches apart. My breath catches in my throat and stays there. I’m afraid to breathe. I’m afraid…of everything. My little world I’ve built for myself on this island is tipping and I’m moments from being lost to the waves.

Lost to him.

Like I’ve always wanted to be.

“Then kiss me,” he says. It’s both a command and a growl and it nearly knocks me off balance. “Prove me wrong.”

I’m staring at his mouth of course, the way he’s holding it, the way his lips almost snarl. It’s an invitation, it’s a trap. And I would never give him the satisfaction of being right, no matter how badly I want his lips on mine.

“No,” I tell him, fixing my gaze on his eyes with as much strength and venom as I can handle. I’m a woman and my venom is as powerful as my heart. I have endless reserves. “That’s what you want me to do.”

“And if I say yes,” he murmurs, his face coming closer, the top of his nose brushing against mine, “that I want it too—would that change anything?”

It would change everything.

Everything.

“It wouldn’t matter,” I tell him. I don’t know where I find the strength.

“I think you’re lying,” he whispers. His hands let go of my arms and reach up, disappearing into my hair. “And I’ll prove it.”

Before I can protest, he swiftly leans in and kisses me. His lips are pressed, flush, wet to mine and in that moment a million waves could crash over my head and it wouldn’t come close to this feeling. I’m sinking, drowning, swimming against his lips. His mouth works against mine in perfect rhythm, his tongue so warm and soft and fucking addicting. He tastes like rum punch and lies and the first rays of morning.

Your sister, that voice, that loud and important voice, speaks up. It’s nearly buried by the lust that’s building through me, the same lust that’s making my knees weak, my limbs tremble and shake.

But it’s there.

I put my hand at his chest and push him back. Not hard, just enough for our mouths to break apart. He’s breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring, his eyes drenched in desire, and I already feel empty without his kiss. Every part of me aches.

“We can’t,” I tell him, wishing I didn’t sound so weak.

“Because of Juliet? Your mother? Which person in your family is it?” His tone is borderline nasty.

“Because,” I say feebly, but my fingers are already trailing to the button on his shirt, just beneath his collarbone. “It’s wrong and you know it.”

“We’re adults,” Logan says. “We can make our own decisions. We can decide what’s right for us, not anyone one else, not because of what anyone else thinks.” He runs his hand through my hair, scratching along the scalp and I nearly melt right there. “Fuck, Veronica. Tell me this isn’t what you want. Tell me it’s not me and I’ll walk away and we’ll go back to what was.”

But the truth is so confusing, so dicey.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, running his thumb over my lips. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a long time. And I’ve been wanting to do a hell of a lot more. If you think it’s been easy for me to deal with that…”

“You were married,” I tell him.

“I’m aware of that,” he says. “But the past tense is was.”

I look at him sharply, like I’ve been kicked in the shins. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“It’s the truth, isn’t?”