6. Eloise
6
ELOISE
His lips find mine in the darkness, cutting off my panicked rambling. For a second, I'm too stunned to react. But then my body takes over, responding to him instinctively, like it already knows him. Like it's been waiting for this exact moment.
I give myself three seconds to melt into the kiss, letting the sensation wash over me. It’s tentative at first, a gentle brush of his lips against mine, like he’s asking for permission. When I don’t pull away, he deepens the kiss, his hand on the back of my neck, moving my head to the side for the perfect angle.
Any other time and I would’ve fought for control. Slid into his lap and angled his face the way I wanted it.
But I can’t bring myself to do it, can’t bring myself to take control. Not today. Not when I’m so goddamn tired of holding everything together all the time. Of always being the strong one, the responsible one, the one who has to figure everything out.
So, for once in my life, I let go. I give in to the moment, the kiss, the man. I let someone else take the lead, even if it’s just for a few seconds, even if it’s with a complete stranger in the middle of a tornado.
For a few blissful moments, everything else fades away. The fear, the panic, the dread of what’s coming—it all disappears, overshadowed by the feel of his mouth on mine, the heat of his body pressed close.
In this stolen pocket of time, there is only his lips against mine.
A small gasp escapes as his tongue finds mine, sweeping into my mouth to tangle with mine. It’s a thorough exploration that sends tingles racing down my spine.
My body is a riot of sensation. Too much adrenaline, the sour curdling of dread, the flighty feeling of fear.
And now the slow, warm unfurling of lust.
It feels wrong to be turned on from a kiss in the middle of a life-threatening situation. But maybe that’s exactly the point. When the stakes are high enough, it strips away all the bullshit.
And what you’re left with is the base model. The version of you that’s stripped bare, your desires and fears left open and raw at the surface.
And somehow, this stranger—this fuck-hot man with his tattooed arms and dimpled smile—is tapping into every single one of those exposed nerve endings. Every swipe of his tongue, every brush of his lips against mine, sends sparks skittering under my skin. It’s electric, magnetic, and I can’t get enough.
He tastes like spearmint and forbidden promises.
His kiss is confident, commanding, like he’s determined to make me forget about everything except the slide of his lips against mine. One of his hands is still cupping the back of my neck while the other finds my hip, his fingers digging in just enough to send a thrill zipping through me. He holds me as close as he can in this cramped space, and I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palm. It’s grounding, soothing almost, a counterpoint to the chaos reigning.
The lights flicker once, twice, before flooding the diner in a warm glow once more. We break apart, both of us blinking at the sudden brightness.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. His blue eyes look like the color of midnight, pupils blown wide with desire as he devours me with his gaze.
My lungs expand with a satisfied breath when I brush my fingertips across his kiss-swollen bottom lip.
“The power’s back,” I murmur, my gaze focused on the way his lips purse against the pad of my finger. Like a kiss.
“Seems like it,” he confirms, voice low. His gaze never leaves mine, focused on me with a kind of predatory attention.
I’m surprised to find I don’t hate it.
Sound filters back in slowly, like cotton is being pulled from my ears. The frantic, relieved chatter of people, chairs scraping against the floor as people climb out from under the tables and booths.
But most noticeable is what’s missing: the eerie wail of the tornado siren. The violent howling of the wind is gone, leaving an almost unnatural stillness in its wake. It’s as if the world is collectively exhaling, the tension bleeding out into the ground.
We stay there for a few moments longer, our gazes still locked, neither of us moving. The world around us starts to move again, but under this table, in our little bubble, time stretches out like taffy.
Slowly, reluctantly, he slides his hand from the back of my neck, his fingertips dragging along my skin and raising goosebumps in their wake. I feel the loss of his touch acutely, a strange sense of bereavement for something I didn't even know I wanted until a few minutes ago.
I take it as a sign to get the hell out of here. I crawl out from underneath the table, pushing to stand just as he stands next to me.
The diner is a flurry of activity, voices raised in relieved laughter as people embrace. But I barely register any of it, my attention wholly captured by the man beside me. He seems equally transfixed, his gaze never wavering from mine.
I smooth my hands over my clothes, trying to straighten them out and regain some semblance of composure. My heart is still racing, and I can feel the heat of his gaze on me like a tangible caress.
I shuffle toward him a step, my mouth tipping up in a half-smile. “We didn’t die.”
“We didn’t die,” he confirms, brows low over his eyes as he watches me.
“Thanks.” I nod toward the booth next to us.
He smirks, one dimple flashing. “For kissing you out of a panic-spiral? You don’t need to thank me for that.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he leans in, lips brushing against my ear as he murmurs the next words.
"Have dessert with me, Peach."
It’s not a question.
And even though I know I shouldn’t—this is reckless and impulsive—I nod, unable to stop the smile that spreads across my face.
Thirty minutes and a wellness check on our vehicles later, we're back inside the diner, seated in the same booth from earlier. The adrenaline is wearing off now, leaving behind a strange mix of giddiness and exhaustion in its wake.
I prop my elbows on the table, resting my chin in my hands as I study him across from me. He looks just as good in the bright lights of the diner as he did in the darkness. All broad shoulders, tattooed forearms, and an easy confidence that seems to radiate off him.
“So,” I drawl.
He leans back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest as he watches me, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "So," he echoes, drawing out the word.
I tilt my head to the side, considering him. "You still haven't told me your name."
His smirk widens into a full-blown grin, dimples flashing. “You haven’t told me yours either.”
“Is this what we’re doing now? Sharing a meal without sharing our names?”
“Safer that way, don’t you think? That way, when you tell me all your secrets tonight, you won’t be worried I’m gonna run to the press with them.”
“The press?” I huff out a laugh. “What are you . . . eighty?”
He folds his arms across his chest and flashes me a grin. “Ask me to tell you a secret.”
I lift my shoulders and let them drop, amusement bubbling inside me like popping candy. “Alright, tell me a secret.”
He drops his forearms to the table and leans forward. “I’m pretty sure my late grandma, Nana Jo, ran our town’s gossip site. She’d always say she’d hear something hot off the press , but when she passed, my sister found this diary of hers. She recorded the most random shit in there. Like someone was seen canoodling with someone else’s boyfriend, the blue ribbon winner stole her recipe. Or my personal favorite: the mailman was stopping at Nancy Gibraldi’s house, but he was spending more time in her backyard than delivering the mail.”
He’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, making him look carefree. It’s infectious, and I don’t even realize I’m laughing along with him until the waitress sets down seven plates of pie on the table between us.
“Here y’all go. Let me know if you need anything else,” she says, her voice bright and bubbly.
“Thank you. This looks delicious.” I nod at her and unravel my flatware. “I’m sorry about your grandma, by the way.”
He nods, his amusement fading into something more solemn. “Thanks. It was a couple of years ago now.”
“Still. That kind of grief doesn’t just go away. We just learn to live with it. That’s why it feels easier with time.”
“Yeah. I never thought of it like that.”
My dinner date moves a few plates around, rearranging them so they’re centered in the middle, sort of in a line. Pumpkin, key lime, banana cream, strawberry rhubarb, blueberry, chocolate cream, and apple. I’m going to do my best to take a bite of each of them, but I don’t think I can stomach too much. Not after the food and the excitement of earlier.
“Start on one end and work our way to the other?” he asks, pointing his fork at a piece of pumpkin pie.
“Sure. Should we rate them too?”
“Like one of those shows on the Food Network?”
I gesture to him with my fork and grin. “Exactly. I love those shows. Especially the baking ones.”
“I still miss Sandy,” he says, getting a forkful of pumpkin pie.
My hand pauses mid-air, my heart skipping a beat. “You watch The Great British Bake Off ?”
“Unfortunately, it wasn’t entirely by choice. My sister has her own bakery, and she’d turn it on every chance she could get. I’d pretend to be annoyed, but I secretly loved that show.” He leans in close, like he’s sharing another secret with me. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I promise.