2.HIS HANDS, MY PULSE

ARDEN

This was a mistake.

Not showing up to the venue. Not taking the job. Not even seeing Rhett again.

The mistake was thinking I could be in the same room as him and not feel… everything.

I was alone in the VIP lounge, adjusting floral centerpieces, when the door clicked shut behind me.

I didn’t have to turn around to know it was him.

His presence rolled over my skin before he even spoke—a quiet heat that settled low and deep, where I’d long stopped letting anyone reach.

“You always did like to be in control,” Rhett said from behind me, voice like gravel dipped in heat. “But you’re shaking.”

I hated that he noticed.

“I’m holding scissors,” I muttered, not bothering to turn. “You should probably leave before I start cutting things that bleed.”

He chuckled. “Still sharp. Still gorgeous.”

I turned slowly, bouquet clutched like a weapon. I clapped back “Still full of shit.”

He stepped closer, closing the space between us until I could feel his breath at my temple. “You used to like that about me.”

I should’ve walked away.

Instead, I looked up.

Big mistake.

His eyes, darker now—more storm than sky—held me there. And when his hand lifted, fingers brushing a curl behind my ear, my body betrayed me completely. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t slap his hand away. I leaned in.

“I didn’t come here for games,” I whispered.

“Then why are you playing one?” he asked, stepping even closer, his chest brushing mine. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you. Say it, Arden.”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because he was already touching me.

His hand slipped to the back of my neck, gentle but firm. He tilted my head back, slow, like he was testing my limits. His other hand hovered near my waist—close, not quite touching. But I could feel the heat of him. I always could.

My breathing hitched.

God, I hated this.

I hated him.

I hated how much I wanted more.

“I shouldn’t,” I said, voice barely audible.

“But you will,” he murmured, and then he kissed me.

There was nothing soft about it. No hesitation. Just hunger and memory and five years of silence burning down between us.

I dropped the flowers.

They shattered very loudly to the ground.

His hand slid to my lower back, pulling me flush against him. My arms—traitorous, needy—wound around his neck, fingers threading into his thick hair. I kissed him back like I was starving, like I’d never been full since he left.

The kiss deepened, his mouth claiming mine like it still belonged to him. His tongue brushed mine, slow at first, then rougher. My head spun, knees weakening as he pressed me against the edge of the marble bar.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged. His thumb grazed my lower lip, eyes locked on mine.

“I missed that mouth,” he said with a devilish smile.

I stared at him, lips swollen, pride in shreds. “You don’t get to miss something you threw away.” I felt proud for saying that

His jaw clenched.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said. “I just thought you deserved better than me.”

“Then you’re right,” I snapped, stepping back. “I did.”

And I do.

I grabbed the bouquet from the floor and walked out, not trusting myself to look back.

Because if I did, I might beg.

And I don’t beg anymore.

That kiss.

The touching.

The way my body leaned into him like no time.

But as I stared at my reflection in the private bathroom mirror—lipstick smudged, cheeks flushed, pulse still racing—I knew I was lying to myself. Again.

He had no right to come back into my life like that.

No warning. No apology. Just heat , like a spark tossed onto gasoline I’d kept buried for years.

And I hated that I still wanted to burn.