Four
FOUR
THE ALCOVE
We’re rounding the corner of the kitchen when two girls run past us, one holding a phone in the air and the other shouting do not swipe don’t you dare swipe ! As they’re running, one of the girls trips and falls into us, pushing me and my dance partner into an alcove on the side of the kitchen wall. It’s a small space, definitely not big enough for two adult people.
“Little tight,” he says with a smile.
“Little? We’re wedged in here so tight it will take a Costco-sized can of WD-40 to de-wedge us.”
“WD-40?” he says, amused.
“Yeah, you know, the lubricant that?—”
The look on his face shuts me up, but only for a second.
“I did not mean to bring up lubricant,” I say, grinning.
Our bodies are crushed together, my boobs smashed into his chest, our knees knocking together, hips dangerously aligned. When we were pushed into the alcove, I threw my hands out and now have one on his bicep and the other on his shoulder, my thumb hooked into the v of his v-neck. I’m eye-level with his chin. When I look down, there’s a long white scar across his collarbone. Covering the scar is a tattoo of a tiny piece of music.
“I knew it.” I trace the tattoo with my thumb. “Musician. ”
It’s three measures, a simple melody, and proof of my suspicion.
He huffs out a one-note laugh and I feel it against my body. “It’s a melody my brother and I wrote when we were kids.”
I shake my head. “That’s so sweet I might actually pass out. Or maybe I’ll pass out from the heat. It’s like a thousand degrees in this alcove.”
Neither one of us makes a move to leave.
“Why is there an alcove here?” he says. “What’s it for?”
“A bookshelf? Maybe one of those huge vases?”
We watch each other, both of us plotting. I know where this is going, know I should stop it, but my brain is no longer in charge. I keep tracing his tattoo, running my thumb back and forth over the notes.
“Something I’ve been wondering about you,” he says.
“You mean for the last twenty minutes we’ve known each other?”
His hands find my waist and his thumbs push into my skin. “You don’t date musicians.”
“As of today, yes.”
“Are there any other banned activities? Say…kissing a musician? Kissing isn’t dating last I checked.”
He’s right. Kissing isn’t dating. And kissing him would be a great way to erase Brad the Bass Player from my memory. It’d be like a service this guy’s providing, helping me move on with my life. Some might even call it a smart decision.
“Kissing might be okay,” I say, “but only on a special occasion.”
“What kind of occasion?”
My hands migrate to his neck. His nose brushes against mine.
“Like, Christmas. Or your birthday. Is today your birthday?”
He whispers against my lips. “I’m thinking of having it legally changed to today.”
Then his mouth is on mine as his hands squeeze my waist. The muggy night air and our mingling breath raises the temperature in the alcove one million degrees. My armpits are damp and he can probably feel my sweat mustache and I don’t even care because holy shit .
It’s not even the amount of tongue (a lot) or the way his hands are drifting higher on my ribcage (almost there). It’s the way he’s softly but purposefully licking my lips like he’s catching the drippy parts of an ice cream cone. The way he’s gently tugging my bottom lip between his teeth before moving to my top lip. The way his tongue curls around mine so seductively I moan right into his mouth.
I was expecting something frantic and illicit but this? He’s so tender. Purposeful. Sensual. It’s the payoff of a slow burn we haven’t earned. If this is what it’s like to kiss him, imagine the sex? It’ll be like bungee jumping into an exploding firework.
We break apart, panting from the heat and the heat , and stare at each other like we just discovered kissing . His face reads complete surprise, his eyes hazy, pupils blown wide. His lips part, his breath coming in short puffs.
I swallow thickly and say, “It’s so hot.”
“You’re hot,” he says, and I would roll my eyes but we’re kissing again, with purpose. His hands are on my ass and I’m scratching my fingernails up under his shirt, my brain firing so many questions and exclamations there’s probably smoke pouring out of my ears. I’m both in the moment and above it, watching and screeching one long, loud WOW as his hands make another loop to my hips, my waist, my ribs, his thumbs sweeping across my pink lace bra. If we keep this up my body hair is going to catch fire.
I don’t have a category for this level of instant connection. We’re inventing it right now, discovering a new level of chemical attraction.
He tentatively dips a finger an inch into the waistband of my shorts. I pull away from the kiss with a loud smack. It’s five million degrees crammed into this tiny space with someone who kisses like he’s shipping out tomorrow. The alcove is too small, too exposed. We need a new location.
“About that dance I owe you,” I say.
A hint of confusion passes over his face.
“We could go down to Jackson’s lair. Basement, I mean. He calls it his lair, I don’t know why. Anyway, I know the door code.” His finger inches further into my shorts as I’m babbling. “And it’s air conditioned.”
He leans impossibly closer and puts a hand on the wall behind my head. The entirety of his long, lean body pushes up against mine. He lowers his mouth to mine in a searing kiss that leaves me breathless. When he pulls away, the open want on his face nearly makes me scream out loud.
His breath on my face is a box fan set to scorching. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Come to Jackson’s lair with me and maybe I’ll tell you.”
We unstick ourselves from the alcove and slide onto the walkway. He holds his hand out and I take it, already feeling cooler and the tiniest bit clear headed. I lead him down the yard to Jackson’s lair. We’re almost there when we run right into Cass.
“Hey,” I say, obviously breathless. I pull my hand out of his so fast it makes his arm swing at his side.
“Granny G fell,” Cass says, her face etched in worry. “She’s at Vanderbilt. We have to go.”
My priorities shift in an instant. I turn to him and he’s already nodding his head.
“Go,” he says.
I head up the hill with Cass and then turn back.
“Sorry. This was…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
“It was,” he says with a devastating smile.