Page 225 of Playing With Fire

Those fucking pictures.

“Becks.”

“I know. It's stupid.”

“No, it's not.”

I gently catch her wrists. “Can I?”

She nods.

I draw her arms away from her body and lift one of her hands to my mouth. A kiss to the center of her palm. Then the other.

“You’re perfect. From head to toe. Don't compare yourself to anybody I've been with.”

Her emerald eyes shine in the dim light. “I'm trying not to.”

“Good.” I brush my thumb over her wrist. “Because I don't want any of them standing in my bedroom.”

Her lips curve faintly. “Just me?”

I look at her. “Just you.”

Something about saying it out loud settles a decision I've been avoiding for weeks. Maybe longer. Five years ago, when Coach Beckett asked me to take Delaney to the North Pines formal, I'd agreed before he finished the question.

Everybody assumed I was doing him a favor.

Hell, I let them.

It was easier than admitting I'd been looking for an excuse to spend an evening with her. I knew Declan would be busy with his own plans. Knew I'd have a few hours when I wouldn't have to pretend I hadn't noticed how beautiful she was back then, with her big green eyes and freckles covering blushing cheeks.

But she was eighteen. And I was twenty-three. The last thing she needed was me confusing things when she was just starting college.

So I did what I thought was right—or tried to. The problem is, I've been trying to do the right thing ever since. And somehow wanting her has only gotten worse.

But this version of her?

This woman standing in front of me?

Fuck.

She's still got those big green eyes and the freckles that used to drive me crazy. But there's something different about her now. A confidence she doesn't always recognize in herself. A softness she tries to hide behind that smart mouth. And curves that make it damn near impossible to remember why I've spent so many years keeping my hands to myself.

I lift my hand, brushing the back of my fingers down her cheek. She leans into my touch, and something in my chest pulls tight. My hand trails slowly along her neck before settling against her waist.

Eighteen-year-old Delaney was the girl I knew I shouldn't want.

But this Delaney? The woman she's become?

She's the one I don't think I can walk away from.

Having her live down the hall has been the best kind of torture.

Every shared breakfast.

Every late-night conversation.

Every time she laughs at something stupid I've said.