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“I was curious, I guess. What you would do. How you’d act. What you were really like.”
“And what did you learn?”
“Not much. You’re pretty boring.”
I smirk. “Not boring enough not to spy on, apparently.”
Making Scarlett blush might be my new favorite hobby. Every time, it feels like a gift. An accomplishment.
“Whatever.”
My grin widens. She laughs and looks away.
“You ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
I flag a waiter and pay the check, stealing glances at Scarlett the whole time.
By the time we leave the restaurant, it’s pitch black out. I didn’t realize how much time had passed. When I’m with her, I don’t focus on anything else. A disconcerting realization for someone used to being in control.
The later hour hasn’t dampened any activity. The streets are just as busy as they were earlier. We walk side by side, closer than is called for. I glare at every guy who does a double take at her.
Scarlett stumbles over absolutely nothing, and I reach out to grab her arm. She laughs. “I thought we didn’t touch.”
“You’re drunk,” I realize.
She thrusts one hand in my face, holding her thumb and pointer finger tightly pressed together right in front of my face. “Only this much.”
I tug them a few inches apart. “I think you mean this much.”
I’ve never seen Scarlett tipsy before. Usually, she’s the picture of poise and snark no matter how many glasses of champagne she’s downed. It’s oddly endearing, how her eyes twinkle and her nose crinkles. She looks younger. “Nope.” She pops the P and closes the gap. Between her fingers and between us. “I meant this much.”
Before I can reply, she kisses me. She’s unsteady on her heels, leaning on me and off-center as she loops her arms around my neck and sucks on my tongue on a busy street.
Most of our kisses have been hurried. This is no exception. She kisses me like there’s a timer. Like the world is ending and we’re the only two people who still exist.
She pulls back after a couple of minutes of public indecency. Before I have the willpower to, despite the fact I only had one drink at dinner, not however many glasses of wine it took to put this sloppy grin on her face.
Halfway to the pier where we left the speedboat we drove from the villa, Scarlett stops and slips off her shoes. And then she startsskippingtoward the sand. Her brunette hair waves in the wind and her blue dress flies around her thighs.
For the first time since I met Scarlett, I think she looks carefree. Happy. The wine probably deserves more credit than I do, but I still claim some. Especially when we reach the sandy beach and she reaches out and tangles her fingers with mine. “I wish there were fireworks.”
“Maybe next time.”
“You’d come back here?”
“If you want to.”
She stands and stares at me as the breeze blows her hair into a wild disarray. “It scares me.”
I feel my brow furrow. “What scares you?”
“How much I want to come back. How much I want…you.”
She immediately regrets the confession. I read it in how her shoulders tense. The way she looks away from me and out at the ocean instead.
“Scarlett.” I step closer.
