Chapter 16 #2
“Pfft,” Winnifred scoffs. “No. He said—and I quote—'If you’re not going to buy the product, don’t fondle it.’”
The crowd bursts into laughter. I nearly choke.
“Yeah, that sounds like my brother,” Daisy confirms.
“In my defense,” I say, “you were squeezing every lemon like it owed you margaritas—and there was no tequila around.”
“You asked me if I fondled everything as I fondled fruit.” She shrugs, wickedly casual. “I obviously accepted the challenge.”
My throat tightens. “I remember.”
“Oh, do you?” she says, all innocence and faux surprise, as if she didn’t just toss a verbal grenade into the middle of my frontal lobe. “Because your face went very . . . flushed. Like you’d just had a vision.”
“I did,” I say, voice lower now, leaning slightly closer. “It involved you. And a grocery aisle. And an unfortunate misuse of the organic mango display.”
Winnifred’s smile goes dangerously wicked. “That explains why you knocked over that entire bin of kiwis.”
“They were stacked poorly.”
“You were flustered.”
“You were inappropriate.”
“I was curious,” she counters sweetly, trailing one fingertip down the side of her champagne flute. “It’s not every day a man looks like he’s debating the moral implications of fruit-based foreplay.”
I nearly choke on air. My grandmother giggles. The crowd? Absolutely enraptured.
“I’m pretty sure I asked you out just to shut you up,” I say, tilting my head.
“I said yes because I thought you were secretly a priest having a crisis,” she replies with a straight face.
That gets a gasp from someone. Daisy chokes on her drink. I feel the laugh bubble up inside me before I can stop it.
“Yet here we are,” I murmur, glancing down at her. “Engagement party and all.”
Her gaze catches mine, and for a second, we’re not performing. We’re just there. Together. Close enough that if I moved even half an inch, I could taste the sugar on her mouth from the champagne.
“Guess you survived my fruit fondling after all,” she whispers.
“Barely.”
Her eyes darken just enough to make me feel like we’re seconds away from crossing a line we weren’t supposed to blur.
Fuck it—I’d let her blur every line if she kissed me right now.
Before either of us can lean in, someone calls out, “When’s the wedding?” and the spell snaps like a rubber band to the back of the neck.
Winnifred straightens, brushing nonexistent lint from her dress. “We’re still debating destination versus local,” she says with perfect poise.
I nod, lifting my glass. “Depends on how much fondling is allowed on the registry.”
She elbows me hard enough to make me stumble. “Behave.”
“Impossible.”
A pause.
We both break into grins at the same time. Hers is radiant and biting. Mine probably looks like a man who knows he’s falling in love with someone who will absolutely destroy him—and still wants her to do it.
The crowd awws like we’re five minutes from a proposal, and the ring’s already in someone’s champagne flute. The kind with a perfectly timed rainstorm and a sweeping orchestral swell.
Grandma dabs at her eyes. “It’s just so beautiful.”
Somewhere behind us—maybe from a cousin, or the catering staff, or someone who’s been eavesdropping with their whole chest—I hear a soft, breathy whisper: “God, I hope they make it.”
What’s weird is that a voice inside me almost screams, Me too. Worse, even if this is fake . . . it doesn’t feel fake.
Not when she’s looking at me like that. Like I’m not just part of the performance. Like I’m real. Hers. Wanted. She tilts her head up, chin lifted, lips parted slightly, and I can see the moment she decides.
Or maybe I decide.
My hand slides around her waist, pulling her closer.
Not roughly. Not like a claim. Just enough to close the gap, enough to feel the warm shape of her body press against mine.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t freeze. She steps into it like we’ve done this a hundred times before like her body already knows the rhythm of mine.
And then—fuck—it happens.
Our mouths meet.
Slow. Intentional. Like we’re rewriting gravity one second at a time.
Her lips are soft and cool from the champagne, but she’s warm beneath them, and I want to taste that warmth.
I deepen the kiss just enough to draw a soft hum from the back of her throat—and that hum wrecks me.
My fingers tighten at her waist. Her hand curls into the front of my jacket like she’s bracing herself like I’ve knocked the ground out from under her.
Her tongue slides against mine, slow and teasing, and my pulse jumps like it’s just caught on fire. She tastes like citrus and heat and every single thing I’ve ever told myself I couldn’t have.
We kiss like no one’s watching.
But everyone is.
And I don’t give a single fuck.
Because right now, nothing matters except the way she feels in my arms and the quiet, devastating way she sighs into my mouth like I’ve just given her a reason to breathe.
When we finally break apart, barely an inch of air between us, she’s looking up at me like she forgot the lines to our script. And I’m looking back like I want to rewrite the whole damn show.
She blinks once. Then twice.
Then whispers, “Well . . . that wasn’t in the rehearsal.”
I smile, slow and real. “Improv, I learned from the best.” I wink at her.
Her eyes linger on my mouth.
“Do it again,” someone says.
And yeah—yeah, I fucking do, until the applause interrupts us.