All Chapters of Kiss It Better: Chapter 281 - Chapter 290

Country music seeps from the wall speakers, the volume turned way down, and without all the crowds laughing and sweating in here, the temperature’s dropping fast. It’s like that at night in the mountains—we go from a hot, sweaty day to a frosty night with barely any warning. My little artist has goosebumps forming on her arms, and as she sharpens her pencil she suppresses a shiver.Floorboards rattle under my boots as I stride to Waverly’s stool from earlier in the corner. Her sweater is slung across the stool, both sleeves dangling toward the floor. It’s a soft wool knit, the color of morning mist, and it’s delicate in my hands.I’m careful as I bring it back to the booth, cradling it like something precious.“Here.” Waverly blushes pink when I offer it to her. “Don’t catch a chill.”Her blonde hair gets all mussed up as she pulls the sweater on, fuzzing out of her ponytail. Fuck, I want to pet that hair. Want to feel those silky strands slipping between my fingers; want to wrap her

It takes some asking around, some raised eyebrows and pointed questions from nosy shopkeepers, but I figure out where Waverly’s staying first thing in the morning. A headache squeezes my skull as I stomp down a Starlight Ridge’s side street to her hostel, every inch of me tired from a night with no sleep.Well, how could I ever hope to sleep after Waverly left things the way she did? She fled from me in the night with no explanation, shock and misery etched on her beautiful face. Of course I’m fucking haunted.“Ass,” I mutter, prowling down the sidewalk. If kicking myself were an Olympic sport, this morning I’d win gold.But I was so sure she was into it. Hell, Waverly started it all, first by licking my thumb, then by throwing herself into my lap and shivering with pleasure under my touch.That’s what I don’t get. She unbuttoned my shirt; she ground down on my cock like she owned it—believe me, I’ve replayed the night’s events over and over in my brain, examining it from all angles,

The next week is the most surreal week of my life. I settle into Kyle’s cabin—a surprisingly cozy home with a wraparound deck that’s a short ways behind the bar, tucked away in the trees. It’s nothing like the sparse bachelor pad I would have pictured for him; there are squashy sofas and bookcases crammed with paperbacks, and the cranky bar boss has strung bird feeders in the nearest branches and wrapped string lights around his deck rail.It’s cute as hell. Like something I might have cut out of a magazine when I went through that vision board phase.So, yeah: it’s been seven days of learning where Kyle’s mugs and plates and spoons are in the kitchen; of secretly sniffing his shampoo in the shower and then stretching out in his bed and picturing his bare skin against the sheets. Seven days of kissing him every chance I get, shivering in his strong arms, then trying to play it cool when we finally peel apart.Kyle sleeps on the sofa each night, his presence overwhelming even through t

The lights of the cabin send a wave of relief crashing over me—but I move even faster, hustling Waverly through the trees, over the packed dirt, and up the steps to the deck. The string lights I wound around the deck rail at the beginning of summer are lashing in the wind, their little bulbs still glowing heroically.“Come on.” Less gentle than I should be in my worry, I push Waverly toward the door. She actually pauses to kick off her muddy boots first—so I snarl and lift her against my chest, carrying her inside the cabin like an unruly child and slamming the door against the wind.I’m being an ass, and I know I am.But I can’t think straight until the door’s locked behind us and Waverly is safe inside the cabin once more. Then I set her rigid body down, my heart hammering against my ribs.As soon as I let her go, Waverly gets the hell away from me, kicking her muddy boots off by the wall. And I know she’s mad, because she’s moving jerkily and she won’t look my way, but I can’t brin

“Waverly.” Kyle looks stricken, lunging for the shower cubicle. When he yanks it open, warm droplets start flecking his new set of dry clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring at me, scanning every inch of me with worried eyes, trying to figure out why I’m slumped against the shower wall and limp with despair. “What happened?”“I’m not hurt,” I mumble, but Kyle’s not listening. He yanks his t-shirt over his head and steps into the cubicle, jeans and all.Strong hands stroke down my shoulders, my arms, my waist, so much colder than the shower as they pat me down for some invisible injury. The shock of those icy fingers wake me up again, make me stand straight against the tiles, because shoot, Kyle hasn’t warmed up at all. Even with dry clothes on and the log burner out there, his hands are cold enough to steal my breath.And—enough.Enough of this.Enough trying to stay mad. Enough letting my exhaustion drag me down. Kyle is cold, damn it, and even if he just unknowingly brok