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I’m afraid of how warm his eyes are.
How sincere his words can be in those times when our teasing and joking take a back seat.
I’m afraid of the sweetness he’s revealing in little bursts of vulnerability.
I’m afraid of how good it feels to be a person he wants to get to know.
His hands hold me, firm and sure. He pulls me in. His voice is deep, rumbly, and sends delicious shockwaves through me. “Buying you replacement ice cream isn’t the move I’m talking about.”
“I was sorta afraid of that.”
“This isn’t very work-ish, is it?” he says, his deep voice now hushed.
“I guess it’s a good thing we’re not at work.”
He leans in slowly.
Anticipation floods me. I can’t breathe.
His lips seal to mine, taking away breath that I didn’t even know was in me. Heaven. This might be heaven. The feeling of his lips touching mine is so much better than I ever imagined. His mouth is soft and warm, his kiss so gentle at first, like I’m delicate, and he fears breaking me.
My body feels floaty, as though I might levitate off the earth.
His arms, though, keep me safe. His hand moves up my back as he kisses me. When our kiss deepens, I let him hold me up.
With my eyes closed, I lose myself in the feeling of his mouth on mine.
When my lips part against his, I taste a hint of spearmint. His scent is stronger now that we’re so close. I smell his soap, his shampoo, the mix of his spicy cologne and laundry detergent that’s laced with verbena and a hint of orange.
As our lips part, I draw in a quick, jagged breath and try to gather myself.
“That guy… he should have pulled you in close, like this, every chance he got,” Brock whispers to me while his arms still circle my waist. “Maybe then, you would want to call him back.”
I can’t think. At all.
Not with Brock’s arms around me like this. His right hand moves to my face. He gently moves his thumb down my cheek. The wisp of my hair that was obscuring my vision disappears. I feel him tuck the strand behind my ear.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he whispers.
“My hair’s a mess. You don’t like messes.”
“I like your messes.”
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper.
“I also shouldn’t be holding you like this.”
“There’s also that.”
“Maybe I got carried away,” he says.
“There’s a small chance we both did.”
He releases his hold. I don’t want him to. I want him to keep his arms around me as the sun sinks below the tree line and the stars come out. But what we’ve done is bad enough, and more would only make the situation worse.
It’s complicated enough as it is.
When I look out and see Zoey swimming out toward the ducks, I’m glad for a reason to step away from Brock. “Zoey, girl,” I call, hands cupped around my mouth. “Leave those poor ducks alone. Let’s go!”
