Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk #3) - Samantha Young Page 0,44

Michael inside me. I wanted to ride him while he touched me and kissed me.

I wanted that more than I’d ever wanted anything. The want became a red haze over my mind.

Our lips brushed again as I swayed into him.

“Dahlia,” he panted.

We were out of breath, and we’d barely touched each other.

And then Michael’s words from earlier whispered in the back of my mind. “Gary said the same thing. At least I have him. He’s the one person who has always had my back.”

I couldn’t do this! Not to Michael. Not to Gary. But mostly not to Michael. He’d never forgive himself.

Pull back, Dahlia. Pull back before you can’t ever go back.

With every ounce of will inside me, I wrenched myself away from Michael, falling against the passenger side door. “I’m sorry.” I panted hard. “I can’t.”

Michael blinked rapidly as if he was coming out of some kind of spell. Realization dawned, and he squeezed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, Dahlia, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t.” I didn’t want him to feel guilty about something that hadn’t happened. “We didn’t do anything. We talked, we hugged. End of story.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but whatever he saw in my face made him stop. Instead, he nodded and put on his seat belt. “I’ll take you home.”

I flushed from the memory of that night. Michael had driven me home, the atmosphere between us thick with sexual tension that refused to abate, and I dove out of the car to get away from it. It hadn’t taken long for us to get back on track as friends. I think mostly because we were addicted to each other’s company. Neither of us would admit it, so neither of us knew at the time how the other felt.

But he was my safe haven from the bad blood between my mom and me.

Bad blood I didn’t understand then, and I still didn’t understand now.

Dillon’s death had been the end of whatever possibility my mother and I had of finding our way together. I understood that. I just didn’t understand everything that had come before.

Maybe if I could, I’d find a little bit of peace. And perhaps if I could mend the hurt between Michael and me, I’d get closer to that peace. Facing my mom was the scariest thing to happen to me since returning to Boston.

Facing Michael for the second time, knowing how much he despised me, was just as terrifying. However, I’d faced Mom and survived.

I could survive Michael.

I hoped.

Walking into the precinct at the start of his shift was better than walking into it at the end. It never used to be like that for him. Not until night shift. At this time in the evening, the precinct was busier, more alive, and that’s what he was used to having worked day shift most of his career. He was worn down, but he couldn’t remember if he’d felt that before or after his change in schedule.

“Hey, Mike!” Wilma, the precinct’s main receptionist, called to him as he passed. “A friend of yours is here. I told her to wait at your desk.”

Confused, he gave a vague nod, wondering who had turned up. It couldn’t be Kiersten. She made it clear she didn’t want to see him again when they’d filed for divorce.

He turned the corner, striding down the open-plan office space toward his area, and he almost stumbled mid-stride when he caught sight of the person sitting perched on his desk with her head bent toward the phone in her hand.

Dahlia.

Michael’s heart felt like it had lurched up into his throat, and he hated she still could make that happen. Years ago when she was with Gary, he’d be waiting for them somewhere, a restaurant, a party, and as soon as he saw her, his heart would leap in his chest.

She could make him feel like a prepubescent teen with a crush.

When he was younger, that feeling made him pine for her. Fuckin’ pine.

Now it pissed him off.

Michael picked up his pace, and as if sensing him, Dahlia’s head jerked up, and she gave him those big wounded blue eyes. “Michael,” she said, slipping off the desk as he came to a stop.

Jesus Christ, he thought, taking in her attire. She did this to him deliberately. She wore a fitted T-shirt tucked into a tight skirt that was high at her waist, showing off how tiny it was, and tight around her thighs. He didn’t want