If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that Lenora Wells lives in my head rent-free. She's carved out a space in my soul no one else could ever fill.

And that terrifies me more than anything because people like me don't get to keep beautiful things.

We just break them.

45. The Geometry Of Almost

CHAPTER 45

THE GEOMETRY OF ALMOST

NORA

Before I can process what's happened, Nate's arms are around me, steadying me. My heart doesn't skip, it leaps. Not from the near fall or the drinks buzzing through my system, but from him. His hands grip my waist with a sureness that makes my breath catch, and his warmth bleeds through my clothes like a brand. His touch doesn't make me flinch or hesitate—it anchors me. With him, I always feel that way, like coming up for air after being underwater too long.

"You need water," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "Come on." His arm stays wrapped around me as he guides me inside, as if afraid I might slip away again.

In the kitchen, he grabs a glass, filling it with ice and water. I hop onto the counter, letting my legs dangle, watching as his eyes trace the line of them. It's bold—something I wouldn't normally do—but today things feel different. Maybe it's the small amount of alcohol I drank when he arrived to try and take the edge off, or maybe the heat, or maybe I'm tired of pretending I don't want what I want.

He stands before me, watching as I take a sip. His gaze follows the glass to my lips with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The water cools me down, but Nate?

He's the reason I feel light-headed.

My knees brush his legs, and he steps between them, close enough that his scent—cedar and warmth—surrounds me. God, how is it fair for someone to even smell this beautiful?

I pull in a shaky breath, and his smirk tells me he notices. His fingers flex at his sides, a tiny movement that sends my pulse racing. Then his hands slide to my thighs, fingertips grazing my skin before planting firmly on either side of my hips, caging me in. His closeness is intoxicating. I can't tell if it's my heart pounding or his, but it echoes in my ears like thunder.

“Fuck. What are you doing to me, Len?” His voice is low, sincere, like he actually cares about the answer.

I lean closer, my lips near his ear. "I could ask you the same thing."

The tension between us crackles like lightning before a storm. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, like he's fighting whatever spell binds us together. But I'm done fighting. I grab his shirt and tug him closer.

His eyes snap open, burning into mine.

Is this what it feels like to play with fire then?