8. Emergency Brownies and Bad Decisions #3
He led, of course. Of course he did. Dean Lockhart led like he was born doing it.
He put one hand gently but securely on my waist, and the weight of his palm sent tingles rushing through me, which only amplified the flutters in my stomach.
We moved in a slow circle, and suddenly everything else disappeared.
The world narrowed to only the two of us, as if we were in a bubble.
For once, my brain shut off, and I was just present.
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or just the fact that Dean was holding me like it cost him something—but I let myself lean in.
Just enough to feel the heat of him, the steadiness.
After a half-turn, he brushed a damp curl behind my ear. His fingers left a trail of goosebumps. I was hyperaware of how close his face was, of the fact that he’d never smelled like cologne so much as clean laundry, coffee, and whatever the hell made me feel like breathing around him was risky.
With each sway, I felt the anticipation building between us. Everything in my body was screaming, yes, yes, yes, but there was a voice in the back of my head telling me, no. Do not do this.
“Probably not a good idea,” I managed to say, breathlessly.
“Probably not,” he agreed. But he didn’t step back. If anything, he drew me closer, the music looping to a slower, sweeter song.
We stopped swaying, locked, suspended, like if we held perfectly still, the rest of the world wouldn’t catch up to us.
He kept his hand on my waist, firm but not demanding. He didn’t force the moment, didn’t say anything. He just waited, immovable—a safe harbor and a dare, all at once.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and suddenly I forgot how breathing worked.
He didn’t kiss me right away.
That was the worst part.
Or maybe the best.
His hand slid around the back of my neck, his thumb brushing slowly beneath my ear as he leaned closer. Close enough that his breath warmed my lips. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him without a single inch of us touching anywhere else.
His lips hovered a breath away. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his mouth grazing mine on the words.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. There were at least ten reasons to say no, and not a single one mattered.
He kissed me.
His lips were softer than I’d prepared myself for, and then the kiss deepened, and my hand found the front of his shirt without my brain issuing the order. He kissed me slowly, like he had no intention of rushing, his thumb still moving at the back of my neck in that same unhurried arc.
When his tongue traced mine, my fingers curled into him, and I felt the low, quiet shudder that moved through his chest. The sensation sent shivers down my spine and ignited a fire in my soul.
It felt like the perfect combination of passion and tenderness, each movement a symphony of desire and longing.
I lost myself in the sensation, forgetting time and space, lost in a moment that felt like it could last forever.
I’d had kisses before, the kind that flash and sizzle and then fade. This was nothing like that. This was all risk and safety at the same time, the impossible math of wanting and knowing it would cost me.
He pulled away first, breaking the kiss and stepping back with a discipline I envied. His hands dropped to his sides, and he inhaled sharply like he was trying to catch his breath.
I was doing the same, my breaths coming in labored pants.
I stood, staring at him, lightheaded and woozy from the most perfect kiss I’d ever had.
The air between us was so thick, it made me want to break the tension.
I tried to laugh it off, saying, “Guess the dance floor passes inspection,” but my voice cracked, and we both knew it wasn’t a joke.
He didn’t smile. He looked at me with that accountant’s precision, like he was weighing every word.
Since joking hadn’t diffused the electrified energy between us, I figured I’d address the situation head on. “Okay, well, we got that out of our system. Now, I think we can both agree it won’t happen again.”
“That’s the problem,” he said, voice low. “I want you enough to make bad decisions.”
Whoa. That knocked the wind out of me. Before, I’d been trying to catch my breath, now I was breathless.
That might be the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me.
I wanted him to say it again, or take it back, or at least give me some script for what to do next.
The problem was, he just kept staring at me, with a look in his eyes that made every cell in my body come alive.
I knew if I didn’t do something, I would end up kissing him again.
I wouldn’t be able to help myself. To distract my hormones, I grabbed my phone, busied myself with a flurry of texts about chair placements and catering, and pretended that nothing had just happened. Because that’s what professionals did.
I left the chapel first, head down, and didn’t look back. But the words followed me through the wedding, and into the night, and into every hour after.
The problem is I want you enough to make bad decisions.
I told myself I’d leave it there. I’d lock it in a vault, along with every other reckless impulse that had landed me here: single mom, new town, new messes.
I told myself it wouldn’t happen again. I needed to keep my head down, keep my heart to myself, keep it together for Maverick, for me, for this new life we’d barely started building.
And for that to happen, I needed to stay away from Dean Lockhart. He was a walking, breathing, six-foot-something temptation, and after that kiss today, I didn’t trust myself to resist.