Chapter 7 If I Die, At Least I Die Cute #3
August leans back against the hood of the car like he owns the night, one ankle crossed over the other, the lake stretching dark and endless behind him like he personally arranged the backdrop.
I move beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush every time the wind shifts, and neither of us comments on it.
For a moment we just stand there, eating frozen yogurt and staring out at the water while the city glows behind us, and the quiet feels strangely loud — like the whole night has been building toward this pause.
“You just want information,” I say finally, narrowing my eyes at him.
He lifts his spoon like a tiny microphone. “We’re getting to know a new friend over dessert. Very wholesome.”
“Wholesome,” I repeat, deadpan.
His grin spreads slowly, dimples making an appearance like they were waiting for their cue.
“My turn. Two truths and a lie. One: I used to collect action figures. Two: I don’t know how to properly load a dishwasher. Three: my favorite song is ‘Good Vibrations’ by Marky Mark.”
I stare at him for a second.
“This is chaos.”
“Pick.”
“The Marky Mark one is the lie.”
His eyebrows jump. “Wrong.”
“No.”
“Dead serious,” he says, looking mildly offended. “That song is a classic.”
I laugh so hard I almost drop my cup.
“Your turn,” he says, turning toward me now.
I stall by licking yogurt off the spoon, because my brain has suddenly decided it needs a minute.
“Fine. One: I have more degrees than I have patience. Two: I’ve read all the Harry Potter books at least five times. Three: I have thirteen tattoos.”
He studies me in that thoughtful way he does, like he’s quietly assembling puzzle pieces.
“Tattoos is the lie.”
I sigh. “Damn. You’re right.”
His grin is immediate. “I knew it.”
Somewhere between the teasing and the quiet laughter, our hands end up tangled in a thumb war neither of us officially announces.
It just… happens.
Warm fingers hooking together. The slow push and pull of someone trying to cheat. My leg sliding casually over his like it belongs there. His hand drifts to my waist like he forgot the concept of distance.
And I don’t move it.
Because the truth is, somewhere along the way I stopped just reacting to him.
I started playing too.
“Boy,” I murmur, leaning close enough that my breath brushes his ear while I twist my hand and pin his thumb, “you always this competitive?”
His laugh vibrates low in his chest, warm and quiet.
“Only when I want something.”
I arch a brow. “And what do you want?”
His eyes flick to my mouth.
“You know.”
My heart stutters in a way that feels embarrassingly loud.
The air changes.
Not dramatically — the lake is still breathing against the rocks, the skyline still glowing behind us — but something shifts between us, like the night quietly tipped from fun into something a little more dangerous.
“You’re doing that thing again,” I say softly.
He blinks. “What thing?”
“The staring.” I tilt my head, studying him right back. “Like you’re trying to read my homework.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Maybe I am.”
“Just so you know,” I say, because my bravery has a very short shelf life, “I pass every test I didn’t sign up for.”
His gaze drops to my lips again, and this time he doesn’t even pretend it’s accidental.
Then the Spanish slips out.
Soft and Private.
“Mírame.”
My breath catches immediately.
That Spanish isn’t performative. It’s not for the room, not for charm, not for ego.
It’s for me.
And I’m not going to lie… it is definitely doing something.
English lets me argue. English lets me be sarcastic. English lets me keep my little walls up and call it personality.
I cannot compete with swag in a foreign language.
That word doesn’t give me a fighting chance.
“Incredible unfair advantage there,” I whisper.
He shifts closer, slow enough that I could still step away if I wanted to.
I don’t.
His knuckles brush my cheek first, light and careful, before his palm settles there like it belongs.
My whole body stills.
The lake wind keeps moving, but everything else feels suspended.
“Three truths,” he murmurs.
I blink. “What?”
“One,” he says quietly, eyes still on mine, “I’m an only child. Two: when I was a kid I thought I wanted to be a paramedic.”
His thumb traces slowly along my jaw.
“And three…”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment we met.”
That gets my attention.
Because suddenly he’s very close.
Too close.
Most of his face is already in my space, the rest of the distance filled with warm breath and something electric humming quietly between us.
His hand slides up, cradling my jaw, thumb brushing slowly over my bottom lip before tucking a loose curl behind my ear.
Permission.
My eyes close.
Our lips meet.
Soft at first, almost cautious, like we’re both testing whether this thing between us will shatter if we push too hard.
It doesn’t.
The kiss deepens slowly, warmth catching like a spark turning into flame. My fingers bunch in the front of his shirt while his hand slides into my hair, steady and warm, holding me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me.
I make a sound I absolutely should not make in public.
He groans against my mouth, and the vibration runs straight through me.
For a second I pull back, breathless.
“We said friends.”
His forehead rests against mine.
“Friends don’t kiss like this,” he murmurs, and there’s no teasing in it.
My brain tries to do its job.
“We should stop.”
August stills instantly.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Then we stop.”
He starts to pull away.
And my body betrays me.
My hands grab him.
“Wait.”
His eyes snap back to mine.
I breathe in lake air and cedar and him.
“Who said I wanted to?”
His jaw flexes.
“Tell me what you want.”
I lick my lips, still tasting vanilla and him.
“I want… you.”
His hand slides back to my waist, grounding.
“We can’t stay here,” he says, and the restraint in his voice makes me want him even more.
“I know.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, like a promise instead of a fire.
Then he pulls back just enough to study me.
“I live fifteen minutes from here,” he says, voice rough. “You interested?”
Smart Harlee should say goodnight. Smart Harlee should pack it up and go home.
Instead I lift my chin.
“Then take me, there.”
August exhales like it’s relief and torture in the same breath.
“As you wish,” he says softly.
He slides off the hood first and offers his hand again.
This time when I take it, my fingers don’t hesitate.
Because whatever this is…
It’s not a mistake.
It’s a decision I’m making on purpose.