Page 56 of Keller

Quinn unbuckles her seatbelt but does not reach for the door handle. She turns slightly in the seat, angling toward me.

"Thank you for coming with me this afternoon. You made it infinitely better."

The words are simple. No hidden meanings to parse, just genuine appreciation, delivered with that direct gaze I am learning to expect from her.

"I'm glad I could be of service. I really liked the movie, and going with you."

Her hand rests on the door handle now. The moment stretches.

Ask me in.

The thought rises before I can stop it. I don't let it reach my face because I have no right to expect anything, and I know better than to assume. Whatever this is between us, she sets the pace. I know last time I pushed too fast, too soon.

Her fingers tighten on the handle and, much to my chagrin, no invitation follows.

"Can I walk you to your door?"

The offer leaves my mouth before I consciously form it. It's not a demand, leaving her the option to refuse me. It's an extension of the evening, a few more minutes before the day ends.

She hesitates for half a second, maybe less, then she nods.

We step out into the warm night air. The street is quiet. A dog barks somewhere down the block, two sharp sounds followed by silence. Porch lights flick on across the street as sensors catch the deepening dusk.

I fall into step beside her on the narrow walkway.

The path to her door is maybe twenty feet, but it might as well be the length of a football field. We walk in silence exceptfor our steps as the gravel crunches beneath our shoes. Our shoulders nearly touch.

Her hand brushes mine. The contact is brief, probably accidental, but neither of us apologizes or adjusts our path.

My pulse ticks faster.

She climbs the two steps to her porch and turns. The lamp in the window casts soft light across her face, catching the freckles she probably doesn't know I notice every time.

I could say something. Make a joke, wish her goodnight, and walk away like a gentleman. Instead, I step closer.

Her chin lifts, and I close the remaining distance between us.

The kiss begins slowly. I give her every opportunity to pull back, to change her mind, to stop this before it becomes something harder to walk away from. But she doesn't.

My hand finds her waist, settling against the curve of her hip. The fabric of her shirt is soft beneath my palm. She is warm and solid and present in a way that narrows my focus to nothing beyond this porch, this moment, her.

Her fingers grip the front of my shirt. She pulls me closer, and the kiss deepens.

She tastes faintly of the popcorn butter she licked from her fingers in the theater. Her body softens against mine, and for one suspended moment, there is no careful distance between us, no questions I can't answer.

Just this.

The kiss turns hungry. It's controlled but urgent. Her breath catches, and I swallow the sound, my thumb tracing along the edge of her hip where her shirt has ridden up. My mouth waters at the touch of her warm, bare skin.

She responds without holding back. Her hand slides from my chest to my jaw, her fingers pressing into the stubble there, angling my head exactly where she wants it.

This could escalate. The thought surfaces and immediately tangles with a dozen others. The front door is right there. I could press her against it, and I'm pretty sure she'd let me. Her body curves into mine, and I'm certain she's thinking the same thing I am.

She breaks the kiss before I can.

Her forehead drops to my chest. Her fingers release my shirt, but don't pull away entirely. Her hot breath licks at my skin through the fabric.

"I have an early morning." Her voice is steadier than I might have hoped.