They hurried to pack up, scrambling up to Dawson's room. He brought the evidence of the picnic with them, knowing there would be questions if he left it sitting around. But the thought of that didn't matter now, not when he was closing the door and Layla's hands were on him again, as warm and hungry as her mouth on his.

There was no feeling like it, Dawson was sure. Her skin, her scent. It did things to him that had never been done before—made him feel things he didn't know he was capable of feeling.

If he had known, he realized, he would never have believed in his own heartbreak. His past, once such a hurdle that he was terrified to jump over, was now just a speck far, far behind him. None of it mattered anymore, and none of it ever would have mattered if he'd known that somewhere, sometime, this feeling could exist in his heart.

Their bodies were two halves of a whole, he thought. The way his hands fit around her waist, the song that caressed his skin at her touch. Fingers tugged clothing away, discarded it onto the floor and went on to dance across bare skin. He let his mouth wander, discovering all the places of her he wanted so desperately to learn. The soft skin of her neck beneath her ear, the valley between her breasts, the gentle curve of her hips.

Her body was lean but strong, covered in the softest milk-white skin and decorated with those maddening freckles. He could go mad from this, he realized. This feeling was addicting. He wanted to trust it, to fall into it completely. But the feeling was her. The feeling was her, and she might leave him.

The thought made him delve deeper into the sensations, made him all the more determined to savor every second of it. If she left him, he would spend the rest of his life missing this. But now she was here, she was in it too, and he wasn't going to let himself take that for granted.

He continued his journey and murmured her name against her core, steeping himself in the way her voice called out for him, the way her hands reached for his, grasping for an anchor in the sea of pleasure.

Deliriously, he led her to the bed. He was never good at expressing his feelings, but he wanted to tell her, wanted to plead with her again to stay. Instead, he showed her. With the two of them tangled in the bedsheets he hadn't bothered to make that morning, he gave himself to her and tried to tell her all the things he couldn't say.

The next week felt like a dream to Layla. Seven days of sneaking around with Dawson—him coming to her room during the night, her taking trips over to the apple bagging shed in the early afternoons before dinner. Stolen moments of intimacy, of getting to know each other in ways Layla hadn't even had the confidence to imagine. Had there ever been anyone who was so interested in her? In what she had to say, what she thought about this or that?

It wasn't just passion or lust between them—that much was becoming alarmingly apparent. He asked her about the little things like which type of pasty tasted better for the store, and the big things like whether or not she thought Jack's idea of starting tours was a good idea. With every passing day, she was becoming dependent on his presence—the idea that she might wake up one day and decide to leave it behind was incomprehensible. She let herself ignore it, let herself play the game that they'd started that night on the picnic of believing he'd already convinced her to stay.

On a Friday, she went into Red View for lunch—at least, that was her excuse. Dawson told Jack thirty minutes later that he needed to go into town for something and met up with her at the local theater, where they bought tickets to some movie neither of them had any interest in watching. They sat in the back to hide their affections like lovesick teenagers, spending more of the film with their attentions on each other than the screen.

"I wish I could've known you when we were younger," Dawson whispered to her in the dark, even though the only other patrons in the theater were rows and rows ahead.

"Why? I was gawky," she admitted, picturing the way she towered over the rest girls and most of the boys, the only redhead in her whole grade. "A late bloomer, too. I was a bean pole until I turned nineteen."

He laughed quietly, and she wondered if the image in his mind was even half as awkward as the reality. "I sincerely doubt that would have stopped me from having one of those painful, teenage crushes on you."

"Is the adult one you have not so painful?" she teased, reaching over for popcorn.

"No." The answer was sincere, she could tell from his eyes. "I don't think I'd use pain to describe the way I've felt with you this past week, Layla. I think I'd use just about anything else."

"I wish we could've known each other too," she murmured, gaze falling to his mouth. "I think... it would have saved both of us quite a bit of pain, actually."

Layla felt like a teenager. She felt wound up, exhilarated, and terrified that she might lose all these emotions someday and never be able to get them back. She'd promised herself that she would never feel this way again—and was eternally grateful that Dawson had made her break that promise, whether she wanted to or not.

The continued daily workouts with Kenzie, Marshall, and the occasional Annie were like a beacon in the sea of her overwhelming emotions. And again, whether she liked it or not, she had to admit that this decision that she needed to make wasn't solely influenced by Dawson. For the first time in her life, she had friends. Friends to exercise with, to go out to brunch with, to talk to about the stupid and the serious.

Of course, the serious things she really wanted to confess, really wanted to ask them for help with, she couldn't. It was tearing her apart, the constant arguing with herself. They deserved to know the truth about Colin, about her and Dawson. Dawson deserved to be able to tell the truth.

But what would they think of her? A woman so detached from her feelings that she'd become engaged with a man just for prosperity. And then to become involved with Dawson, all while staying engaged to another man... No, she couldn't tell the truth, even as much as the lies burned. If she did, this daydream of a life, this perfect little world that she'd somehow walked into would all come crashing down.

But then, eventually, she would have to go back to New York. She couldn't live here with lies forever. If she was serious about moving on from Foster Fitness, about creating her own business in Red View, then she'd have to come clean with everyone, about everything. And who was to say if they'd want her there if she did?

The facts were simple: whatever decision she made, to stay or go, this fantasy she was living in couldn't last forever. So the only sensible thing to do, she decided, was ignore that and enjoy it while it lasted.

Author's Note: I just wanted to mention that Kenzie's best friend / maid of honor Emelia has been renamed to Gabriela! She's only been mentioned twice in this story so far (as far as I could find while editing the chapters to make the change lol), but I figured it was still something I should mention. I'm in the midst of writing book 2 and the name just wasn't working for me anymore 😅