Page 74 of Almost Enough

“Can I ask you something?” I finally say.

He gives a curt nod.

“Why did you push me away?”

Beau’s hands flex on the steering wheel. For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer. Then he takes a deep breath.

“Because I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “I don’t know how to let someone in without waiting for it all to fall apart.”

“So you make it fall apart first?” I ask.

His jaw clenches. “Yeah.”

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. “That’s not good enough.”

He glances at me, eyes unreadable.

“You don’t get to pull me in and then ghost me because you’re scared,” I tell him. “That’s not how this works.”

I watch the way his body goes still, like he’s bracing for impact. But I don’t stop.

“I’ve had plenty of people walk away when things get messy. I’ve had enough of being someone’s wake-up call, their not quite good enough. I’m not interested in being someone’s emotional trial run while they figure their shit out.”

He doesn’t say a word, just stares ahead at the road.

“I don’t need perfection, Beau,” I say quieter but just as firm. “I would never ask for that. But I need honesty. I need someone who doesn’t bail when it gets hard. Who doesn’t pretend like what happened between us was nothing just because he’s too afraid to admit it meant something.”

I let out a sigh. “You don’t get to make me feel all of that and then run away just so you can say you left before I did.”

He still doesn’t look at me, which is fine since he’s driving, but at least now he knows exactly where I stand.

His chest rises and falls like he’s holding back a tidal wave of emotion. Then he jerks the truck over to the shoulder, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

“Beau.”

Before I can finish, he’s unbuckling his seat belt and turning toward me, eyes blazing. There’s something unhinged in the way he looks at me.

“I tried to stay away,” he says. “I tried, Whitley. But I can’t stop thinking about you. About how you laugh when you’re pretending to be okay. About how you say my name like it’s not a curse.”

I don’t breathe. I can’t.

And then he’s on me.

His hands are in my hair, on my face, gripping like he’s scared I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough. His mouth crashes into mine, desperate and consuming and so full of everything he’s been refusing to say.

I gasp into the kiss, hands fisting the front of his shirt. He tastes like heat and regret and hope, and I kiss him back like this is the first breath I’ve had in weeks.

His thumbs press into my jaw, angling my face just right as he takes my mouth in a claim he’s finally ready to stake. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s hungry—all teeth and tongue and heat.

I melt into it, leaning further into him. His kiss is fire and punishment, penance and possession, tangled together as one.

“I missed you,” he growls against my lips, his voice wrecked and raw and absolutely ruined. “I fucking missed you, and I hated every goddamn second of it.”

“Show me,” I whisper, breathless and aching.

That breaks him.

He groans, deep and guttural, and it rolls through me like thunder. One hand slides down my side, fingers pressing into my hip, his grip tight and grounding. My spine arches instinctively, chasing the contact, needing more. The center console digs into my ribs, but I don’t care. I’d climb into his skin if I could.