Page 77 of Where We Stay

Much to my surprise, I do.

When we reach his truck, he opens the passenger door for me.

“I don’t accept rides from strangers,” I tell him, attempting to sound defiant.

“We’re hardly strangers.” His mouth twitches. “Get in, Miss Morgan.”

Touché, Mr. Ashford.

The drive home is short, but sitting this close to him makes the space inside the truck feel even smaller.

That’s the alcohol.

It has to be the alcohol.

“Do you have any plans tomorrow?” I ask.

“I’m taking Aspen to the lighthouse for a picnic,” he replies. “It’s her favorite place.”

“That sounds groovy.”

Dean glances at me from the corner of his eye.

Yep. I just said groovy. Fucking kill me.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Dean joins in, the deep sound filling the truck, and I decide I really like being the reason for it.

When we reach my cottage, Dean walks me to the front door.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Ashford.” I look up at him. Has he always been this fucking tall?

“You’re welcome, Miss Morgan.”

Neither of us moves.

Dean steps closer, curling his fingers beneath my chin and tilting my face toward his. His gaze drops to my mouth.

My breath catches.

For one stupid, hopeful second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

Instead, his jaw tightens and he steps back.

I frown. “What was that about?”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“So?”

Dean drags in a slow breath before meeting my eyes again.

“The first time I kiss you, Blair, I want you to remember it.”

Then he turns and walks away like he hasn’t just detonated something inside me.

I stand on the porch, watching his taillights disappear down the road.

Well.