Chapter 9 #2
The girls won’t mind if I bail. If anything, they’d get mad at me if I turned Jonny down just to light candles and talk on the phone with them.
They’re the whole reason I’ve been testing out this new version of myself—flirty and spontaneous, and forward.
Blissfully free of my usual overthinking ways. At least mostly free.
They’d be the first ones to assure me that I’ll have seven other nights to light the candles, but only one night where I’m invited to join Jonny’s wonderful family for Sunday dinner. Still, my stomach is doing a weird, twisty thing.
I push past the guilt and say, “I’d love to.”
And I’m pretty sure I mean it.
After dinner, Jonny helps me with the dishes, and we continue our easy conversation.
I tell him about the bookstore, how I’m getting more customers every day, and how I’m ordering more stock—not just replenishing what I have but adding new titles.
He tells me about how hard it’s been being back in his parents’ house, how he’s happy to help out, but his dad is ornery and frustrated that he can’t be his usual strong self.
“Thanks for helping with the dishes,” I say when the last plate has been washed and dried.
He leans against the counter, flipping the dish towel over his shoulder. “My pleasure. You cooked, so I should’ve done all the dishes while you sat there drinking wine and looking pretty. But I kind of liked having you close.”
He’s watching me, eyes soft but intent, his lips in that half-smirk that makes my stomach flutter. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, the hum of the fridge loud in the silence. It feels like there’s a question hanging in the air: what happens next?
I take a step closer to him as Talia’s words echo in my mind: It doesn’t have to be that complicated. You’re hot, he’s hot. You’re horny, he’s a man…
I try to push any lingering self-doubt out of my mind, lift up on my toes, and go for it.
Jonny doesn’t hesitate, leaning down to meet me halfway. When his mouth captures mine, the sound I make is embarrassingly eager. But he smiles against my lips, and his hands slip to my lower back, drawing me closer.
The next kiss is slower, almost lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world.
It’s decadent: the taste of red wine on his tongue, the sweep of his hand up my spine, the thrum of pleasure under my skin.
He’s so much taller than me, and my fingers twist in his shirt as I try to tug myself higher, closer.
Without breaking the kiss, he reaches down and scoops me up, setting me on the counter.
My knees part, and he steps between them, his hands coming to my face.
I expect things to speed up now, to tip over the edge, but he keeps that same deliberate, unhurried pace.
His thumbs skim my cheekbones as his tongue searches my mouth, all his focus right here, on me.
Like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing than this.
Heat builds low in my stomach, coiling tighter with every drag of his lips.
I hook my fingers through his belt loops and tug him closer, craving the solid press of him against me, but he doesn’t budge.
His body is so close, his hips between my thighs, but there’s a maddening inch of space between us.
When I scoot forward on the counter, desperate to close it, he shifts back.
It’s the sweetest kind of torture. My pulse is racing, my breathing erratic, and I can tell he’s feeling it, too.
I slide my hands beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin against my palms. He hesitates for a beat, then dives into another kiss, somehow even deeper.
It’s both infuriating and intoxicating, this sense that he’s holding a match right above kindling and refusing to let it catch.
“You’re going to make me fall apart,” he murmurs.
“That’s kind of the idea.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, pressing his forehead to mine. “If you only knew what I want to do to you.”
Electricity sparks down my spine. “You could show me.”
But he just exhales, a slow, shuddering breath that brushes against my lips. So I take his face in my hands and kiss him, my fingers sliding up into his hair. The second my nails graze his scalp, a low sound escapes him, half sigh, half groan.
“So good,” he breathes. “That feels so good, Sarah.”
I freeze. “Shira,” I whisper, not sure why I chose this moment for my confession. Maybe because I want him to be moaning my name, to be feeling these feelings for me, not the person I’ve been pretending to be.
He’s moved to the other side of my neck, but stops when he realizes I’ve gone rigid. He pulls back, looking at me with a concerned expression. “You okay?”
“It’s Shira,” I tell him, my voice a little wobbly. “Sarah is my Starbucks name.”
“Your what?” Now it’s Jonny’s turn to stiffen. He steps back, eyes narrowing like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“The name I give people when it doesn’t matter—kind of like a nickname.”
“But it’s not your name?”
I shake my head, my cheeks warming under his sharp gaze. “My real name is Shira.”
“Shira,” he repeats, like my name is a mystery, something strange and different. He shakes his head. “Okay, but—why would you tell me the wrong name?”
My stomach tenses, all the warm, lovely feelings turning to stone. I bring my hand to my necklace, rubbing my fingers against the sharp edges of the six-pointed star, knowing I have to fully rip the Band-Aid off.
“I’m sorry. It’s just…not a common name, and it felt easier at first, when I didn’t know I’d even see you again. I—I’ve been wanting to tell you that, and also—”
Jonny’s phone rings, and we both flinch. He reaches into his pocket to silence it, but it immediately starts ringing again.
“Sorry,” he says, fishing it out of his pocket.
I slip off the counter, drowning in embarrassment. I wish I could fast-forward past this part, or rewind to a few minutes ago when we were kissing like we were the only two people on the planet, or even further back to two weeks ago when he introduced himself and I told him my name was Sarah.
Why did I tell him my name was Sarah?
“Shit,” Jonny is saying into the phone. “I’ll be right there. Five minutes, okay? Take some deep breaths. Everything’s gonna be all right. See you soon.”
He hangs up and looks at me, and for the first time since I’ve met him, he seems genuinely worried.
“Is it your sister?”
He nods, moving out of the kitchen. “She’s having contractions, and Kyle is at some sales conference in Austin. I have to go.”
“You have to go,” I agree, following him to the door
He grabs his jacket, then turns back to me, his head tilting as he studies me for a second. “Shira,” he says, then shakes his head like he still isn’t sure what to make of it. “Well, thanks for telling me.”
“Thanks for not hating me?” I say, biting my bottom lip. “You don’t hate me, right?”
“No,” he says, but he seems distracted. And the quick kiss he places on my cheek feels platonic.
He’s worried about his sister, I tell myself. Understandably so.
“There’s more I want to tell you,” I say, hoping I’ll be able to explain and tell him everything else I’ve been less than honest about. Give him a chance to see the real me, including the pieces I’ve been afraid to show.
“We’ll talk later,” he says, then gives me another platonic kiss.
“Keep me posted on Kara,” I say, and he nods before walking out the door. Leaving me alone and lonely and feeling like the jerk I am.