I laugh, and the easy feeling between us returns.
“What if,” I start tentatively, “to avoid any confusion, we kiss right now instead of waiting until the end of the date?”
Damon’s eyes widen, and he immediately leans closer, crowding into my personal space. I lick my lips nervously.
“A kiss won’t leave any room for misinterpretation,” I explain. “And then we can enjoy the rest of our first official date without the usual first-date awkwardness that comes from waiting for the kiss.”
I don’t mention my first-date jitters before our dinner in Little Italy months ago; that feels too vulnerable. I also don’t mention the butterflies that took flight in my stomach the night we met.
Damon’s face is mere centimeters from mine now; close enough to see his dark pupils spread in interest, and the excited flare of his nostrils.
“We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings,” he agrees.
And then he’s on me, hands gripping my hips tightly and pillow-soft kisses exploring my mouth in agonizing tenderness. I part my lips to invite him in, to go deeper. Anything to quench the fire suddenly burning inside me. Instead, he cradles my nape in both hands, tilting my head back to expose the curve of my jaw and trailing kisses down the expanse of my neck.
It’s so sweet, it’s almost heartbreaking. And I’m growing more desperate by the second.
I don’t want fuckingsweet. Nottenderorgentleeither. Not after all this waiting and hoping and yearning. Yearning I tried to pretend was normal to feel for a friend. Normal to feel so strong it woke me up in the middle of the night with my hand shoved in my panties. God, Denise is going to be insufferable when I tell her about us.
I sigh into his lips.Us.I like the sound of that.
Damon’s large fingers slide deeper into my hair, and I groan, but he still keeps his kisses feather-light, almost chaste. He’steasingme! I’m two seconds from climbing into his lap and demanding he kiss me like he means it when I hear theunmistakable sound of a camera shutter. I hide my face in his neck, and he pulls back instantly.
“Is something wrong?” he whispers fiercely. I feel his eyes scanning my body, looking for how he might have hurt me, then glance up to find him searching the surrounding area for whatever set me on edge. He tenses as soon as he spots the camera lens in the bushes.
“Don’t turn around!” I hiss when it seems like he’s about to confront the reporter. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“Then what do we do?” he growls, ready to defend me if needed. If only he knew there’s no defense against paparazzi, not for someone like me, who requires regular publicity to stay relevant with brands, fans, and designers alike. It doesn’t leave much time for private moments like these, though. I let out a resigned breath.
“He’s probably already got his shot. Let’s just ignore him and head to the restaurant.”
I can tell Damon wants to argue, but he holds his tongue, helping me up and gesturing for me to lead the way.
“Kendra! Kendra Gray!” the man shouts, following us.
After over a decade of dealing with brazen reporters, I can easily ignore their attempts to get me to turn around for a picture. Damon, however, sends menacing glares behind us.
“Why isn’t he pissing off?” he asks, tugging me closer to him. The camera shutter snaps again, and I pick up the pace.
“Money,” I shrug, peeking behind me to see the reporter still following. “If the pic is particularly interesting, or, more often, embarrassing, they stand to make serious bank.”
Damon grumbles beside me.
“Is he going to leave us alone?” he asks. We both turn to find the paparazzo closer than he was before.Click. I pick up the pace again.
“Probably not,” I admit. “The pics from the launch event are still circulating, and we’re fresh on people’s minds.”
“We?” he questions, almost tripping over a tree branch on the sidewalk.
“Yeah,” I answer, almost out of breath from practically jogging now. “My ex just got engaged, and now we’re seen together. Everyone’s waiting for the drama to unfold.”
Didn’t he know this could happen if he came to the event as my date? How can he say he wants something official, then balk at pictures of us together? I push those thoughts down, partially because they’re unpleasant, but mostly because I have to focus on running without busting my ass on a tree root or a crack in the sidewalk. That paparazzo is still behind us, and he’sgaining.
“Kendra!” he shouts.Click. Click. Click.“Who’s your new boy toy?! Is this your rebound to get over Andre?!”
I don’t answer. Damon, picking up on my near panic, takes my elbow to pull me even faster away.
“Kendra! Did you hear that Andre and Julie are getting married live during his Christmas show at MSG?”
