Catch The Kiss (Chicago Anchors #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

[Ruthie]

18 years old

I t started with a kiss.

And that silly experiment.

The dating break had been all Clifton’s idea. “I just need a little . . . rest . . . from us.”

What he’d meant was he’d already been horizontal with someone else, despite our commitment to one another as high school sweethearts who’d gone to college together.

I wasn’t entirely heartbroken. If Cliff wanted an out, I was happy to give him one. Maybe permanently. I needed a breather as well.

The issue was, I had only ever been with Clifton, and I wasn’t confident I could so easily hook up with someone else. Forget about dating.

But thoughts of what it would be like to actually kiss someone else consumed me.

I’d entered the Psychology Department’s experiment to prove something to myself.

But also, because I didn’t think anyone else would willingly want to kiss me. At such a young age, my self-esteem had been wrapped up in Cliff’s approval. My trust had been gifted to him, which was strange considering the daddy issues I harbored. I believed in Clifton’s promises to love me, and only me, for always.

Sad. Pathetic. Yet optimistic. The decision was a first for me. A rebellious act.

A toe-dip into Reckless Ruthie.

I’d heard about the experiment from my psychology professor. The class was a social science requirement for graduation, and I’d been enjoying the section on childhood development. I wanted to be an early education teacher. Despite the anonymous participation, I could also earn extra credit toward my class.

The psychological project involved a complex questionnaire along with consent to be interviewed and filmed. A nondisclosure agreement prevented us from discussing who we kissed with a firm contingency about contact afterward, as in, none was allowed for one full year.

The point was anonymity.

And a kiss.

Sixty seconds, kissing a random stranger.

There could be no prior contact. No future relationship. Just a kiss.

I likened it to a moment. You know— that moment —when your eyes meet someone else’s across a bar, or a crowded bus, or in the freezer section at the grocery store, and something clicks between the two of you. Sparks crackle. Energy shifts. For just sixty seconds, you are connected to that person .

A smile passes. An intimate stare. An extra skip in your heart.

Then blip . Gone.

Yet you carry that unexpected, unexplainable minute with you through all the other minutes of your existence.

Not that I personally knew anything about those precious sixty seconds. My romantic heart had only experienced them in movies and books.

Thus, the project.

The kiss experiment meant coming to the psychology department early on a Saturday morning. The only issue I had was making an excuse to my roommates about where I was going so early with fresh makeup and curled hair, plus a backless shirt I’d borrowed from one of them.

Typically, I wore jeans and flannel shirts with flat heels and scarves. Conservative. Casual. The backless shirt meant I couldn’t wear a bra. I’m not flat-chested, so I was self-conscious donning something without support. My blonde hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. I wore heels, assuming any partner might be taller than me. At five-seven, I was average, just like my appearance.

I didn’t need to wear anything seductive. The kiss was guaranteed. Plus, a no-groping rule was in the contract. No wandering hands. No grinding body parts.

I was a stickler for rules. And yet, I was sick of following them.

As I walked across the quiet campus, I’d checked my breath three times, blowing into my palm and sniffing. An extra mint was neatly tucked into my pocket, just in case. I’d applied deodorant—twice—and spritzed perfume on all the sensory points. Wrists. Neck. Inner elbows.

However, our lips would be the main attraction.

Once inside the empty classroom, I noticed the desks were pushed to one side of the room and the opposite wall was covered by a white drop cloth. Although we were anonymous as participants, we’d also agreed to be videotaped to capture our interaction, and ultimately reaction, to one another.

Kissing a stranger for one full minute.

After the transaction, as the experiment called the moment, we’d be interviewed, separately, of course, to discuss how we felt before, during, and after.

Standing inside the silent room awaiting my partner, I’d grown especially anxious. That double dose of deodorant wasn’t working and spritzing all the important places was backfiring. The scent was making me nauseous.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

The female professor conducting the project stood behind a video camera. The lights in the room were dim, but a bright photography lamp highlighted the spot where my partner and I were to stand.

Standing in the classroom, waiting, I envisioned whom I might be partnered with for this only-one-time kiss.

What if he was old? What if he had glasses? What if he didn’t kiss well? What if his breath smelled?

I’d brushed my teeth so often that morning my gums had bled. I didn’t want to be remembered for having bad breath. I didn’t want to be remembered as a horrible kisser, either.

I wanted this moment to be a memorable experience.

A loud thud, followed by a low curse, draws my attention toward the door.

Then he walked in.

Broad shoulders. Solid thighs. Rusty-brown curls peeking out beneath the edges of the baseball cap on his head. He was taller than me, but with my heels on, we wouldn’t be terribly mismatched.

And he was shaking out his hand like his knuckles collided with the doorjamb .

I wasn’t certain who he was, only that his aura said athletic, popular, arrogant.

He approached the professor without a glance in my direction. They spoke for a few minutes, excluding me, as if I wasn’t in the room. He sounded combative and I heard the words “blackmail” and “extortion”. The professor responded with something about remaining on the team.

Definitely an athlete. Absolutely did not want to be here.

When he finally turned toward me, the most amazing green eyes pierced mine. Intense. Unforgettable. Moss-colored with gold flecks that twinkled beneath the focused photography light.

Then he smiled at me, instantly settling my nerves while making me restless in a new way. My body hummed. He held out a hand and I took it like he intended to hold mine, not shake it, which apparently had been his intention.

I giggled. His smile grew wider, exposing deep dimples, emphasizing the lushness of his mouth.

He tipped his head toward the professor. “Just confirming the ground rules. No groping.”

Was he worried I’d inappropriately touch him? Panic pinged through me. My emotions were on one hell of a roller-coaster ride.

We could embrace, press close, tug tighter, but our hands had to stay away from the no-go zones, which included the chest area on me and below the belt. I couldn’t go below his either.

The thought warmed my cheeks.

The professor narrowed her eyes at him. The glare a warning.

“So, how do we start?” He addressed her while turning back toward me. He swung his baseball cap backwards on his head, the move like he was preparing to take his mark. His rounded face suddenly became edgier, like he was locking in on his position. On his commitment.

He was determined to kiss me for sixty seconds.

Then he winked.

My heart stuttered. While I was rattling with anxiety, he exuded calm confidence. He’d probably kissed hundreds of girls, and a strange wave of envy came over me. He didn’t need the practice or the research of kissing someone else. I was nothing special to him .

“How would you initiate a first kiss?” the professor eventually prompted.

My partner turned toward her, while I continued to take in the lines of his face. Hard jaw. Growing scruff. The perfect Cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

When he looked back at me, he said. “Just look into my eyes for a second. Breathe.”

Nerves got the better of me, and I immediately glanced away. A warm mitt of a hand cupped one side of my jaw, drawing my attention back to him. The pad of his thumb brushed against the corner of my mouth. Then his lips touched mine.

The connection was overwhelming. A zap of energy, a strange electricity, a current of something I couldn’t explain.

I grabbed him by the back of the neck and smashed my mouth against his in response. The kiss was aggressive at first, each of us fighting for control. He clearly wanted the lead and when his hands fell to my waist, drawing me closer to him, I snaked my arms around his shoulders, pressing myself flush against his firm chest. I adjusted to his height by rising on my tiptoes. He bent his knees to meet me halfway. Our bodies lined up in all the ways they could.

And shouldn’t, according to the rules.

Our lips had to remain connected for sixty seconds. An act of the Universe could not have pulled me away. Our mouths moved, melding together, bonding us forever. He was both a stranger and familiar. His tongue quickly met mine, and a new surge of desire ripped through my body. He knew how to kiss. How to control. How to wind me up.

I rocked into him. He clutched my hips, moving me in a way only one other person ever had, and yet the motion was nothing like what I’d experienced before. We—this stranger and me—felt more in sync.

When his hand slid to my lower back, keeping me pinned against him, I held tighter, never wanting to let go.

This was no ordinary kiss.

This was more than an experiment.

This was a dream. One I didn’t want to wake from.

Warm hands met my bare back, and I shivered. The shoulder of my shirt slipped down my arm. My covered breasts were plastered to his broad chest. I teased my fingers into the hair sticking out of his ball cap. His excitement pressed against my lower belly.

The thought that I’d made him hard from just a kiss sent an empowering current of desire zapping through me, threatening to electrify me. There was no doubt how my body would react if we continued longer than a minute at this kissing experiment.

With my arms around his shoulders, I used the position to leverage myself higher, lining us up better. Shifting, he practically lifted me. We moved in time with each other. A practiced dance, yet first-time partners.

“Fifteen seconds,” the professor called out.

The reminder of an audience should have startled me. Should have broken the delicious tension of the moment.

The time alert only spurred us on.

One of his hands slid around my ponytail, clutching the lengthy strands in a solid fist, while the other slid to my backside. He was breaking the rules, but we did not care. Fifteen seconds wasn’t enough time. We kissed with new desperation. Reinforced intensity. As if starving to swallow the last morsel of one another.

He’d be imprinted on my mouth forever.

“ And . . . time.”

As we broke apart with a rush, chests heaving, nostrils flaring, my body followed his like I was still tethered to him. My mouth practically begged for more. My heart certainly wanted extra minutes.

I was so close— so close —to something unique, something powerful, something I had never encountered before.

Despite time being called and the sudden break, he leaned in for a second taste.

A softer kiss. A gentle brush. A final farewell.

He pulled away first, and I bent my head, leaning into his chest, needing another minute to catch my breath.

Sixty more seconds, please?

His fingers tickled up my spine. He massaged the back of my neck.

Tears filled my eyes when he kissed the top of my head.

I glanced up at him and he grinned, cocky but sweet. With a shaky smile, I giggled, anxious and strung out, blinking back the silly tears of pent-up arousal and sudden disappointment.

The moment was over.

I tried to step away first but wobbled on weak knees. He caught my elbow to steady me.

“Any questions,” the professor asked.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Can I have your number?” he asked at the same time.

“No contact for a year,” the professor reminded us.

The rules.

I was a follower of them.

And I hated that about myself.