Chapter 8 #2
I swear the dance floor shrinks to just the two of us.
Slowly, I lean down and brush my lips against hers.
Her breath hitches, and I feel a tiny tremor move through her body.
Even though I meant to leave it at that, I can’t seem to help myself from going back in again.
One brush becomes another, and when her lips part, I sink in deeper, letting the warmth pull me in.
My hand slides to the small of her back, drawing her closer.
God, her mouth is perfect. Luscious and soft and impossibly sweet, and when her tongue meets mine, it’s like sparks ignite along my spine.
But there are way too many people around, so reluctantly, I pull away.
She’s gazing up at me, eyes wide, a little dazed. “Not bad,” she murmurs. “That’ll raise you to a B+.”
I shake my head, mock-disappointed. “How do I get that A+?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Maybe take me home and find out.”
A few minutes later, we’re out the door, hand in hand, walking toward Sarah’s place. Luckily, it’s not too far away.
“I had the best time,” she says, throwing her arms out. “This town is so cute, and everyone has been so nice, and to think I was nervous to come here!”
“You were?” I ask, smiling. Tipsy Sarah is dangerously cute. “Why?”
“Oh, I just…I don’t know.”
She sways, and I grab her hand to steady her. “Watch out. You didn’t go easy on those ranch waters tonight.”
“Oooh, those were soooo good,” she gushes. “What’s in them?”
“Tequila,” I say. “And some sparkling water and lime juice. But Russ is known for a heavy pour.”
“Well, I don’t feel drunk at all!” she declares, then promptly steps off the sidewalk.
I wrap my arm around her waist before she can stumble. “Yeah, you seem totally sober,” I say, laughing.
By the time we reach the Petersons’ place, Shira can barely stand straight. The second I open the door and help her inside, she goes up on tiptoe to kiss me.
“No more of that tonight,” I tell her, leaning back. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
She pouts, all big brown eyes and soft lips. “You had just as many drinks as I did.”
I didn’t, because it’s my job to get her home safely, but I just smile. “Sorry to break it to you, darlin’, but I can hold my liquor better than you can.”
“Yeah, you’re a lot bigger than me.” Her hands run up and down my arms, squeezing my biceps like she’s inspecting them for science. “All muscly and stuff. Better take me to bed.”
A laugh bursts out of me. My mom always said drunk words are sober thoughts, so I’m seeing this as a good sign. “How ’bout I tuck you in?”
I lead her into the bedroom, and she wobbles, giggling. She immediately starts unbuttoning her jeans, and I turn away just in time. Pretty sure she wouldn’t be thrilled tomorrow if she found out I’d watched her undress, though God knows I’m dying to peek.
When I risk a glance back, she’s pulled on a giant t-shirt that says BBYO. No idea what that means, but she looks damn cute in it. It falls about halfway down her thighs, giving me a clear view of her curvy legs and the single sock she’s still got on.
Heat crawls under my skin, my imagination way too eager to fill in what I didn’t let myself see as she changed. What she’d feel like pressed against me. How easy it would be to tug that shirt up and off—
Knock it off. I scrub a hand over my face. If I don’t pull it together, I’m going to do something stupid.
I fold back the covers and motion for her to climb in.
She does, then grips my forearm. “Stay. Please?”
Suddenly, every cell in my body wants nothing more than to curl up next to her, let her rest her head on my shoulder. And then…who knows? Best-case scenario, she wakes up a few hours from now, sobered up, sees me there, and maybe the sparks from the dance floor turn into something more.
But worst-case scenario? She wakes up to find a man in her bed, and panics. I’d never forgive myself for scaring her like that.
I glance down at her. Her hair’s a messy halo across the pillow, those dark lashes already drooping. My heart thumps. I really, really don’t want to leave.
But unfortunately, responsible Jonny has to win out over reckless Jonny tonight.
“I don’t think so,” I say, reluctant.
She huffs like it’s a terrible injustice. “You keep rejecting me! I mean, what am I supposed to think? My friends think maybe you have a secret wife somewhere. Or you’re embarrassed because you have a teeny tiny dick.”
I cough out a laugh. “Well, neither of those is true—”
“Your sister said you like me, but nooooo, I think you’re just bored,” she goes on. “You’re bored, so you flirt with me, but then you don’t do anything about it, and that’s very misleading, Jonny McKay. All that start-up energy, and you can’t seem to get this started.”
There’s genuine hurt under the babbling, and it hits me square in the chest. She doesn’t get it—how much I do want to do something about it. Which is exactly why I can’t stay.
I lean over the bed, lowering my voice. “All right, listen. You want me to sleep over when you haven’t had approximately half a bottle of tequila, I won’t say no. Deal?”
She lights up, grinning. “Deal. Dealio. Dilly beans. What are dilly beans, anyway? Can I have some?”
“You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” I say, shaking my head.
“Yeah, you better stay and make me breakfast in the morning,” she mumbles, snuggling into her pillow.
I chuckle. “Ah, so this is all just a ploy to trick me into making you my famous bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast tacos?”
Her eyes droop closed as she exhales. “I don’t eat bacon.”
“What about eggs?”
“I love eggs,” she slurs, curling deeper into the covers. “I love eggs so much. I would really, really love to eat your eggs, Jonny McKay.”
I bite back a smile. “Another time.”
“Rude,” she sighs. “Oh, wait…there’s something I need to tell you. About me.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Her eyelids flutter, her lips parting. I wait, but then she exhales and relaxes, drifting off. So I head into the kitchen, fill a glass of water, and return to place it on her nightstand.
For a second, I stand there, watching her sleep, and that weird fizzy feeling settles in my chest again.
Dusty’s stupid comment from the other night echoes in my mind, that I’m going to “hit it and quit it.” At first, I was worried that Sarah would believe him and wouldn’t be interested.
Now a different thought sneaks in: What if that’s what she wants from me?
It stings. I’ll admit it.
So I smooth the hair back from her forehead, press the lightest kiss there, and leave before I can change my mind about staying.
As I drive home, my mind keeps circling back to Sarah’s comment about my “start-up energy.” That’s how I’ve been for a long time—jumping into new projects, building them fast, then moving on. It’s how I’ve done relationships, too: all fun and flirtation, no follow-through.
But then I remember that kiss at the bar.
The anticipation of leaning in, the reluctance of pulling away.
That feeling of wanting more and knowing I’ll have to wait until we’re alone to get it.
Makes me wonder what it would be like to slow this all down, to stretch out each moment, to take my time for once.
That kind of thing hasn’t interested me before. I’ve never been good at being patient, but something about her makes me want to give it a try.