Page 263 of Playing With Fire

I've spent years telling myself there are lines I won't cross.

Things I won't risk.

And now I'm sitting here on my birthday, eating Thanksgiving leftovers with my best friend's little sister, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to go back to a life where this isn't normal.

She nudges my knee with hers. “You okay?”

I look up. “Yeah.”

“You got quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

I grin. “Very.”

She watches me for another second. Then reaches across the counter and takes my hand.

I turn mine over, letting her fingers slide between mine. And I realize something. I don't want her to leave.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not when whatever this is gets complicated.

I want her here.

And that's the part that scares the shit out of me.

Delaney squeezes my hand before letting go and reaching for the plates.

“All right, birthday boy. Dessert.”

“Becks, I just ate enough food to put me in a coma.”

“Then you'll die happy.”

“That's comforting.”

“You're welcome.”

She carries the plates to the sink, then retrieves the pumpkin pie from the counter.

I watch her cut two slices and swirl a generous dollop of whipped cream onto each.

“You know,” I say, “I'm starting to think you came back for the food.”

She slides a plate in front of me. “Please. I could've stayed in Evergreen and eaten twice as much.”

“Then why'd you come back?”

She looks up.

For a second, the teasing disappears from her face.

“Because I wanted to be with you.”