Rory #3
Only problem, the god-of-love vision board set around this stage isn’t helping.
The spotlight’s just drilling light into center stage. The idea of standing under that is making me sweat.
This is awful.
And to add insult to injury, there’s a tiny voice in the back of my mind saying: Drop the paper and run. Just, like, duck, dive, and dodge off the stage.
I almost laugh to myself picturing it before I stop just outside the halo of light.
I’ve got this. Come on, me. Razzle-dazzle him.
Professor Tate rattles off some instructions that I’m not remotely listening to because this is it . . . I’m going to turn around and look Oliver in the eyes and smile coyly and say . . . Wait, what am I going to say?
Maybe I’ll start with something cheeky about R and J and Valentine’s Day . . .
I’ll be like the girls in movies with hot guys like Jacob Elordi. Yeah, here we go . . .
One . . .
Hold up, all those girls are goofballs, not goddesses.
Two . . .
Improv, think of something, dummy.
Three . . .
I turn casually, brushing my hair over my shoulder, immediately locking eyes with Oliver.
He grins. I’m catatonic.
His super-white teeth scrape his bottom lip before he leans down. This time I get a good whiff of him. He smells kind of like fruit and wood, if that’s even a thing.
“Hey, don’t be nervous. It’ll be over in a blink of an eye . . .” His eyes drop to my pants. “And then you can get back to celebrating your VD . . .”
My eyes spring open. “No . . . nooo, I don’t have . . . No, it used to say Valentine’s Day . . .”
This would be a great time for a tornado to touch down and sweep me away to Oz.
He chuckles. “I know . . . I’m kidding. Just follow my lead, yeah?”
I nod like an idiot because words are a foreign concept right now. He’s so close to me, it has scrambled the receptors in my head. I can’t think. And there’s a good chance I’ll never recover from this sex kitten debacle. It will haunt my life.
“Also,” he adds, “I know the scene calls for a kiss, but I’m sure kissing a complete stranger today wasn’t on your to-do list. So how about we skip it? I’m sure Tate won’t mind . . .”
I know he’s speaking, but my brain is also melting and yet, against my will, words tumble out of my mouth.
“Maybe we should stick to the script? You know, just in case he does mind. This class is worth forty percent of my grade. We should just become the characters.”
What am I saying? I don’t even remember processing that thought. Am I on desperate, horny autopilot?
Probably because no kiss means all four years of Hot Guy fantasy blows up in my face. This is survival time, and my body understands the assignment.
He raises his brows, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he almost looks shy. But I do know better, because a guy who looks like him gets laid on the regular.
Still, he says, “Oh,” showing off his dimple along with his crooked smile. “Yeah . . . a kiss is cool.” I blink, holding my breath, as shoves his hand into his back pocket. “By the way, I like your last name.”
“I like yours too . . .” I lie.
I don’t know what his last name is, but I’ll take it if he wants to share.
He chuckles. “I was making a joke because you said become the characters . . . It was niche Shakespeare. You know, because their last names are the problem.”
“Oh.” My god . . . obviously, I’m an idiot. How would he know my last name. I hate myself.
“When you’re ready,” Professor Tate’s voice rings out.
Oliver chuckles again, only glancing at me before walking into the spotlight, making me follow.
“May I?” he says quietly, reaching for my hand, so I nod.
He weaves his strong fingers between mine, making my heart race so fast that I’m nervous I’ll be winded when I speak. But when his eyes connect with mine, I’m instantly struck by how piercingly blue they are. It’s like I can’t look away.
We’re standing in the middle of the stage, locked on each other, tiny specks of dust sparkling in the light around us as he stares down at me.
“Ready?” he says only loud enough for me to hear.
“Yeah,” I say back.
His eyes drop to where our hands are connected before he begins softly playing with my fingers. I watch him lick his lips before his eyes lift again. There’s a shyness behind them, along with . . . yearning.
Oh my god.
I can feel my chest rise and fall faster, and my lips just barely part.
He shakes his head. “‘I fear I’ve defiled your hands, which are like a holy shrine to me’”—he lifts my hand between us a bit higher, touching it to his chest—“‘by touching them with my own unworthy hands . . .’”
“What?” I answer breathlessly, but he ignores me, still speaking.
The way he’s staring down at me and the fact that I can feel the taut muscles on his chest is making my head swim. He brings the back of my hand to his mouth, pressing his pillow-soft lips to the top.
Holy mother of god.
My eyes close for a second, savoring the feeling, but when they open, Oliver’s looking at me expectantly. But all I can do is smile. He kissed my hand.
I giggle and blink a few times quickly.
Am I batting my eyelashes at him? I think I am.
Oliver grins as his eyes discreetly tick down to the script in my hand. But it isn’t until the raise of his brow accompanies his look that I catch on.
Oh crap. The play.
I suck in a breath, standing a little straighter as I lift the paper close to my face. Mostly to hide my embarrassment.
“‘Good worshipper—’” Oh my god, why does my voice sound like that . . . all husky and sex-phone-operator-y. I clear my throat. “‘You’re too harsh on your own hand, as it shows a perfectly polite devotion by holding mine.’”
I might be reading, but Oliver’s leading, because he stretches out his fingers, making our hands press together as I finish, “‘After all, pilgrims touch the hands of saints, and the hands kiss when their palms are brought together.’”
Honestly, I don’t even know what Shakespeare’s saying. I cheated and ChatGPT’d this whole class, but as my arm slowly lowers and I peek over the paper, he smiles at me and I decide right there on the spot that Shakespeare’s a genius poet.
Because Oliver’s smile makes me feel like he’s known me his whole life.
He steps in closer to me. It makes my stomach tingle from the wings of butterflies releasing.
“‘Yes, but don’t the saints and the worshippers have lips too?’”
Lips . . . I have lips.
He’s nodding, so I follow along, nodding too, until my brain catches up again.
“‘Yes,’” I say on a heavy breath, remembering the line. “‘Pilgrim, lips that they should use for prayer.’”
Please, god, hear this prayer. They say never meet your heroes, but please let him be a good kisser. If you ruin this for me . . .
Oliver smirks, gently tugging me closer so our bodies are flush. “‘Well then, dear saint, let our lips do what our hands are doing.’” He looks to our palms, pressed out beside us now. “‘They’re praying for something after all, a kiss, so their faith doesn’t turn into despair.’”
My chest brushes his as my response is said in almost a whisper: “‘Saints don’t act first, although they may respond to prayers.’”
I blink, staring at a dark beauty mark by his right eye. It’s flawless, like him.
Oliver takes his hand from mine, letting mine drift down to his elbow as his fingertips gently brush my jaw.
“‘Then don’t move while I get my prayers answered.’”
Everything happens in wonderfully slow motion.
His head lowers to my upturned chin. Chemistry crackles between us.
A soft breath falls from between my lips as his part.
My eyes begin to shutter as the warmth of him tickles my skin.
He’s less than an inch away, the softness of his mouth hovering over mine.
“Cut.”
I gasp, far too loudly to be covert, but Oliver doesn’t move.
Our mouths stay hovered, shaky breaths mingling, before I swear to god I hear “Screw it,” and then he kisses me.