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I’m not unaware of the full package I present: the high cheekbones, cinched waist, and grown-up curves.
The way I look has never been something I’ve celebrated, though. In fact, it’s caused me nothing but grief. My mother’s boyfriends were always a little too interested in me. School teachers and parents assumed things about me based on the way I looked, like my sole purpose in life was to lure the men in this town off the path of righteousness. My bosses have never seen me as anyone with value beyond my appearance, my conversation with Mr. Harris earlier today a prime example. After all the unwanted advances and snide remarks—well, it’s obvious why I don’t wear much makeup or bother with tight clothes. There’s no point in making the problem worse.
A hard chest hits my back, pushing me farther into the bathroom, and awareness trickles down my spine. He had a choice just like I did. He didn’t have to follow me back here, but that door is already swinging shut and his presence is filling the quiet space.
His hand hits my bicep so he can direct me forward. In the mirror, I see how easily he towers over me. The distance between the top of my head and his chin could be measured in miles, not feet.
We make a striking pair: dark features perfectly matched, brown eyes of such varying shades they shouldn’t even be classified as the same color. We’re two beautiful people about to make some very bad decisions.
“How old are you?” he asks, meeting my eyes in the mirror. My body stills as I realize his tone is as sharp as his cheekbones.
“Twenty-two.”
His brow arches in judgment. “Pretty young to be sitting in a bar by yourself.”
I don’t deign to justify my life to him. If he wants an explanation for why I’m here right now, he can ask nicely. Until then, I’ll turn the spotlight back on him.
“Why didn’t you leave with your friends?”
His free hand reaches for the hair hanging over my shoulder. I watch him in the mirror as he brushes it behind my back and an involuntary shiver racks through me.
“I didn’t want to,” he says quietly.
“Why?” I push.
His gaze flicks back to mine. “You looked sad sitting up at the bar all alone. I guess a part of me wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That was the last thing I expected him to say. Uh, ’cause you’re hot was about the response I thought I’d receive.
An avalanche of emotion collapses on me so suddenly, I’m trembling with the need to give up control of these tears, to let my shoulders slump and my spine crumble. I squeeze my eyes shut.
When’s the last time someone wondered if I was okay?
I can’t cry. I can’t let him see me at my most vulnerable. He won’t want to go through with this if I turn into a blubbering mess. Oh, you thought we were coming in here to do naughty things? No, I’m actually looking to ugly sob for about thirty minutes while you rock me gently.
He cares.
Why?
He’s a stranger, someone I’ve only spoken a handful of words to, but I know instinctively he doesn’t want to take advantage of me. Besides, he already could have.
We’re alone in this bathroom right now. No one is going to come check on us. He could push me up against the wall and do as he pleases, and yet he holds perfectly still, waiting for me to respond.
My sadness quickly gives way to anger, just like it always does. Tears won’t help me out of this mess. Self-pity won’t solve my problems. I’m only standing here in this moment because of my strength and my sheer will to survive another day.
When I’m sure the tears are at bay, I blink my eyes open again and reach for his hand, the one that touched my hair so reverently it nearly burst my heart wide open.
“And what did the other part of you want to do? The part of you not worrying if I was okay…” I ask, my voice as sultry they come.
His gaze darkens in the mirror and I’m surprised to see he’s not a man possessed by lust and desire. He looks troubled and confused, almost as if he’s about to turn and walk right out the door.
I don’t give him the chance.
I turn around, rise up onto my toes, and press my soft curves against him at the same time my lips touch his.
The gentle kiss shocks him.
His hand tightens painfully on my bicep, and then, just as quickly, he loosens it, brushing his hand up and down my bare skin, soothing the ache as if he’s scared he hurt me.
He doesn’t kiss me back right away, but I’m persistent, and when he finally does, our awkward, stilted movements turn into something sweeter: a kiss you share with your best guy friend the summer you turn fourteen, a kiss stolen when you know your parents aren’t looking. It’s tender and tentative, nothing but soft lips and unspoken possibilities.
