I still, one foot over the threshold from the kitchen to the hallway.
“If you need to experiment, you can experiment with me.”
I turn slowly on my heel.
“Did you say experiment?” I lick my lower lip, and I swear his gaze dips to my mouth.
“Yeah.” He tugs at his hair. “If you’re going to be out kissing guys, you can practice with me first.”
21
KATIE
Ican’t breathe. “Practice.” I manage the word.
His tongue wets his lower lip. He’s closer now, blocking out the rest of the kitchen with his broad shoulders. “Yeah,” he says huskily. “That was our deal, remember?”
“Was it?” I feel like I’m in a fun-house version of my life.
“I’m your coach. Practice with me. Get it right for when ‘the one’ comes along.”
There’s a hitch in his voice when he says “the one.” It matches the hitch in my chest when I think about kissing Tristan.
“Right.” I press my palms to the wall behind me. “Well, go ahead, then. Get it over with.”
A smile bursts across his face. “Get it over with? Damn, Bailey. You know how to flatter a guy.”
Warmth fills my chest. Even in this, he’s so Tristan.
I really want to practice with him.
His grin falters as he scans my face. “I’ll make it—” A heavy pause. “Good.” I see the slow movement of his throat as he swallows. “I promise.” His voice is rough.
Time stretches between us. “I know you will.” Of course he will. It’sTristan, who I’d trust with my life. I wet my own lips, and his eyes track the movement before he dips his head and bumps his forehead into the painting to my right.
He growls something that sounds like “stupid painting.”
“Smooth.” I snort a laugh.
“Fuck.” He tugs at his hair, looking so put out that another laugh tears from my throat, unexpected and rolling through me, defusing any awkwardness.
He’s laughing too, his shoulders shaking before he presses his forehead to the wall next to me. His breath puffs against my shoulder, stuttering and uneven with the force of his laughter. My body arches toward his warmth, a heat-seeking traitor.
I turn my head toward his, my cheek to the wall, still smiling.
He tips his own head toward me. Our lips are an inch away. I trace his with my eyes—the steep upper curve, the plush lower dip, the indent in the middle. I feel like sparklers are going off inside me.
“Tristan,” I whisper.
“Yeah?” His smile is sly, his eyes warm. This moment is just for us—the warmth of his arms, the cage of his body, the press of his heartbeat.
“You’re a crappy teacher. Stop stalling.”
He chuckles. His lips are still curved up when he presses them to mine.
22
KATIE
