22. Cherry Lips #2
“Yeah, she’s cute, but . . . not her.”
Amelie smacks my arm. “Cute? Look at that body.”
“Maybe a bit young,” Shane muses.
I barely process Primrose questioning how Shane can tell from her back alone as Kyle declares, “Bachelor’s decision.”
After a careful look at me, Logan raises his thumb like a Roman emperor at an execution.
Well, shit.
A chorus of “Come on,” and “Get up!” pushes me forward as Amelie says I should only come back a winner. I stand and move, unable to look away from her backless dress. It’s her. It’s gotta be her.
I step closer and her friend notices me first, gesturing that someone is behind her before walking away. She turns, and my breath catches in my throat as dark green eyes lock onto mine.
“Chef?”
“Charlotte.”
She turns fully, and the sight of her knocks the air from my lungs. The dress clings to her, the fabric flowing down her frame and the neckline plunging just enough to be devastating. She’s holding a vibrant cocktail with a maraschino cherry floating at the top.
She looks stunning, unreal, like these few days apart only made her more irresistible, and for a moment, my brain is absolute mush .
I swallow hard. “You look . . . incredible.”
“Thank you.” Her fingers toy with the hem of her dress, the material shifting beneath her touch and skimming over her curves.
“It’s one of yours, isn’t it? The dress?”
“A new one.” She pulls slightly, smoothing it over her hip. “I was thinking about you when I made it.”
Green, my favorite color. The same deep, rich green as her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, tilting her head in curiosity. “Oh, wait. The bachelor party, right?”
“With a splash of divorce celebrations.”
She hums. “Sounds interesting.”
“Trust me, it is.” I take a breath, inhaling the faint scent of her perfume—floral, devastating. How is she here? I still can’t believe it.
“What?”
“Nothing, just . . . I’m surprised you’re here.”
She must catch on to what I’m thinking, because her eyes roll. “I’m not stalking you, Chef. I came with some of the people from the show.”
“I wouldn’t mind you stalking me,” I say, enjoying the smile that blooms on her lips. Her poker face has been slipping more and more.
“So . . . where is your party?” she asks, looking around.
“They sent me on a mission. I’m supposed to, you know, hit on you.”
“Oh?” Her lips curve in amusement as she hooks one arm around my neck, pulling me a fraction closer. “On me, really?”
My hands find their way to her waist, fingers slipping under her dress and grazing the curve of her hip. “I guess they caught me staring at you.”
She tilts her head as her gaze flickers to my lips. “I told you, Chef. You have no poker face.”
Maybe I don’t want a poker face when I look at her.
What if I want her to see everything? Everything I feel, everything I want?
What if I want her to know that the moment she steps into a room, the air itself rearranges to make space for her?
That she’s the gravity pulling me in, the only thing my eyes search for, the only thought that has mattered since the second I first saw her?
“So what does my face tell you right now?” I ask, stroking her side.
She giggles, her breath warm against my cheek. “That you’re drunk.”
“What else?”
“That you really want to kiss me.”
Fuck yes.
“Will you let me?”
She breathes out a laugh, shaking her head slightly. “You’re drunk, Chef.”
“Will you let me kiss you?” I say again, my grip tightening.
Her eyes flicker, and she bites her bottom lip. She’s thinking about it. I give her my most sincere smile, hoping it’ll tip her decision toward the answer I’m desperate for.
“The moment we kiss, this will stop being about the fun of sneaking around,” she says, her voice lower now, serious. “The thrill of danger.”
“I think we’re past that already, aren’t we?”
“Not until we kiss. ”
“What will it be about then?” I ask.
She leans into my touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I guess that depends on how the kiss goes.”
Well, I want to find out. Us kissing—it would be everything. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. The taste of her, the heat of her body against mine. I want to kiss her until my head spins, until my hands memorize the curves of her body. Until nothing else exists but her and me.
“Let’s do it,” I say, leaning forward.
She tilts back, giggling. Her glass shifts in her hand, the cherry bobbing in the liquid, and my chuckle vibrates against her skin as I kiss the delicate spot just below her jaw. The sound she makes—a breathy sigh—sends heat curling through my veins.
“You’re drunk ,” she reminds again.
“Stop saying that.”
“But you are!”
“Who cares?” My fingers press into her lower back. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks, Charlotte. Since you were just Cherry to me.”
She studies me, her fingers grazing the nape of my neck, tracing deliberate circles. “And you want to do it in front of your friends?”
I shrug. “They told me to. Amelie said that I should only come back a winner.”
“Amelie?” Her joy dims slightly. “I thought you said it was a bachelor party. Why is she here?”
I frown. Again with this? “It’s a bachelor-slash-bachelorette party—and she’s married. All the women with us are taken.”
Before I can reassure her further, she grabs my hand and pulls me with her.
The dance floor is packed, bodies swaying and colliding under the pulsing strobe lights. The music pounds in my ears, the bass thrumming through my chest. She stops in the middle of the crowd, the press of people forming a barrier around us. It feels like another world in here—dark, hazy, intimate.
Why did we just run away from . . . Amelie, apparently?
“Isn’t she married to your boss ?” Charlotte asks, eyes widening like I’m missing something obvious.
“ Oh .” She’s worried about the two of us being seen together. “He’s here too, but everyone’s drunk, Charlotte. And in this darkness, I doubt they’d recognize you if they saw you again.”
My hands find her waist, pulling her closer, and with her body flush against mine, I trace the length of her neck with my fingers, down the slope of her shoulder.
I press a kiss on her skin, then another, then another, rising up her neck.
I love the way being drunk around her makes me daring. Because fuck, do I want to dare.
“We should kiss, baby,” I say into her ear. When she watches me, eyes hooded, I continue. “It won’t change a thing about how we feel.”
She seems irked. “Really?”
“Really. You’re the most complicated, impossible thing that’s ever happened to me.
Not a mistake, not a regret, not something I can walk away from and pretend it never happened.
You’ve wrapped yourself around every part of me, and I don’t know how to untangle it.
So, really , kissing you won’t change a thing. ”
Her sharp inhale is lost in the music, but I feel her breath against my lips, like I’ve just unraveled something inside her. Her hand slides up, fingers threading through my hair, nails scraping just enough to make me shudder.
“That was good,” she says, her lips curving, but I see her throat bob, betraying her.
I smirk. “I have my moments.”
She hesitates, her gaze flickering between me and the half-empty glass in her hand. Then, she leans back slightly. “But you know I have my rule against kissing. I’m afraid I can’t say yes.”
Oh. I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. The last thing I want is for her to feel pressured, but I’m pretty sure she can see the disappointment flicker across my face. I really thought that things were different between us. That I’d be her exception.
She lifts her glass to her lips and finishes the rest of her drink in one smooth motion. “So I guess if you want this Cherry , you’ll just have to come and get it.”
With that, she flashes a smile at me, the maraschino cherry from her drink trapped between her front teeth.
I burst out laughing, a sound I couldn’t have held back even if I tried. She joins in, the joyful noise spilling into the air and making her shoulders shake.
She’s so fucking amazing.
The playful challenge in her eyes shifts to something darker as the space between us disappears entirely.
She tugs me down, pressing her lips to mine, testing at first, a slow drag of warmth.
But the moment I respond, her fingers tighten in my hair, her body molding against mine.
She tastes like sweet, tart cherry, and the music, the crowd, the flashing lights—they all fade into the background.
It’s just her, the way she tilts her head to deepen the kiss, her tongue brushing against mine until she’s stolen the last of my restraint.
I grip her waist, fingers sliding beneath the fabric of her dress, tracing the dip of her back. Her tongue pushes the cherry in my mouth, and with a grunt, I swallow it, the taste as intoxicating as hers.
When my hand presses her closer so she can feel what she’s doing to me, she gasps against my mouth.
“I knew it.” She nips my bottom lip. “I knew you’d kiss me like this, Chef.”
I press my forehead to hers, catching my breath. “I’m not done kissing you yet.”
Her fingers toy with the hem of my shirt. “Then don’t stop.”