“A storage closet?” I put a hand on my hip, and my elbow brushes against his stomach in the tight space. He sucks in a breath, and I try to ignore the heat blooming up my arm from that brief point of contact.
I press back against a shelf, creating more room. He leans against the opposite wall. A single lightbulb hangs from a string between us, casting the little room in warm dim light.
“Storage closets are sexy.” His wide grin ignites my already smoldering insides into a fire of want.
“Bow ties are sexy,” I counter.
He laughs. “Did you just quote the Doctor to me?”
My smile feels like it’s about to split my cheeks. No one ever gets my Doctor Who references.
“Your mom’s not my patient anymore.” He casually crosses his arms over his chest. “Go out with me.”
I want to say yes. I want to scream yes. This is everything I’ve dreamed about for weeks. But I hesitate. What if his feelings for me aren’t strong enough to deal with the stress of my life, to deal with the stress ofme?Mom’s doing well, but we’re not out of the woods yet. I have a little over a week until my MFA thesis is due and two weeks until I have to defend it before a committee of professors. If I get through that, I need to find a job and figure out my life. Is now really a good time to start something new? Could I handle having my heart broken right now?
I’ve always had bad luck in the romance department. It starts out okay. But I can’t keep my mask up all the time. Eventually it slips, and then every guy I’ve ever dated acts like my dad and runs. Or badgers me to death trying to make me into something else, then splits. I’m great from afar, but not so easy up close.
I don’t want my memories of Cosmos to be tainted with heartache. The magic and wonder of stopping time with someone is precious. The way he looks at me makes me feel special in a way I never have before. That’s how I want to remember him when I’m old and grey, surrounded by romance novels—because I’m now officially addicted. I don’t want to ruin that.
I’m not the girl who gets the happily ever after. I’m the girl who reads about it.
He’s waiting. Barely breathing. I should say no. But I blurt out, “Why?”
The tension in his shoulders breaks in a laugh. “You mean, apart from the fact that I find you irresistibly attractive?”
I nod stiffly, struggling to believe what he said, trying to keep from completely freaking out. Attractive can mean a lot of different things. A spectrum from cute to sexy. But attraction isn’t enough. Still… irresistibly attractive… No one has ever said that about me. It doesn’t seem possible that this man standing in front of me would say it now.
He pushes off the wall and steps closer. “I like how deeply you care for your mom, and the way you gave up the last blueberry muffin in the cafeteria last week because a kid wanted it, even though you’d already paid for it.”
“You saw that?” I ask in wonder.
“I see a lot of things, Hazel. I see how resilient you are, how passionate, how absorbed you get in a book.” He’s so close the tips of our toes touch. “Two nights ago I saw you walk from your mom’s room to the family room without lifting your eyes from your book even once.” His laugh is like bubbles in champagne, light and effervescent. “You’re easy to talk to, and whether I’m quoting Mary Oliver or referencing Doctor Who, you know exactly what I mean.”
He leans forward half an inch, experimentally, cautiously. I don’t move back. Our faces are so close I can feel his breath on my lips. His nostrils flare, and even in the dim light, I can see the black of his eyes expand, as if it plans to devour the rich brown that rings his pupils.
“When?” I say, breathless.
“Tonight? Today? Now?” His palm comes to rest on my cheek. “Fuck, Hazel, you have no idea?—”
Before I can overthink or second-guess it, I lift on my toes and kiss him. His groan vibrates straight through to my heart, like a shot of adrenaline. The hand on my cheek moves to thread into my loose hair. His other hand rests on the shelf above me, holding some of his weight as he leans closer.
This kiss is a dance. But it’s no slow dance, or waltz, or repetitive foxtrot. It’s a salsa. It’s fiery and fierce. I might melt from the heat of it. He tastes, pulls back, tastes again, nipping and tugging. Teasing. His mouth owns mine.
Knock. Knock.The doorknob jiggles.Knock. Knock.
Someone is trying to get in, but we don’t break apart. Without a word, we look at each other, our eyes as locked as our lips. The knocking stops. The kiss changes. Slower, but no less intense. The look in his eyes is like quicksand pulling me in, pulling me under.
His hand moves down from my hair, along my spine, until it’s pressed into the small of my back. His long fingers spread, and his pinky dips below the waist of my jeans.
He repositions us, my back hitting the only wallwithout shelves. And, now, both his hands are on me. Exploring up and down my arms, my sides, my neck, my hair. My ass. I’m just as shameless in my exploration, letting all the pent-up tension from the last few weeks drive me forward.
My hands slip under his shirt, making him hiss as his abs flex.
“Fuck, Haze,” he gasps before diving right back into the kiss.
Feeling brave, I slide one hand up his back until I can braid my fingers into his hair. He moans against my lips. His eyes are as shuttered as my own, but neither of us looks away. We don’t even blink. It’s intimate in a way I’ve never experienced. It’s like he can see right into my soul. I want to pull back, to hide, but I can’t. I’m too desperate for this.
And so is he. I can feel it in the way he rubs against me, practically growling when I twist and writhe against him, spreading my legs so his thigh can notch between mine.
