“I did not.”
“Did too.Right, left, right, right,” she says with a low voice, that I assume is supposed to sound like me but isn’t even close.
“Are you . . . mocking me?”
“Yes.”
She says it so quickly and defiantly that I can’t help but laugh. And I don’t mean a quick one this time. It’s deep and rich and right from my belly.
Which is why it takes me so long to realize she’s staring at me with the goofiest grin.
“What?” I ask after sobering up.
She shakes her head. “It’s just ... you just have a really nice laugh, you know that?”
Suddenly my cheeks feel warm, and I know it has nothing to do with my laughing.
Am I ...embarrassed? Holy fuck, I can’t remember the last time that happened.
“I can say with certainty that nobody has ever said that to me before.”
“Is that because you rarely laugh?”
“I laugh.”
She points at the spot between my eyebrows. “You scowl more often than laugh.”
“Well, nobody ever gives me anything to laugh about. Which is other people’s problem, not mine. Oh, sorry. I’m sure that makes me ‘sound like an ass,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does. But it’s still funny.”
Her perfectly shaded brown eyes sparkle with humor, and her lips turn up in the corners like she’s about to laugh. It’s so fucking cute.She’sso cute.
It feels like I’m standing in the kitchen all over again, and the urge to kiss her strikes me so fast that I nearly stumble backward.
Don’t do it, Ezra. Don’t fucking do it.
Still, I find myself moving closer. Then again.
I can’t stop myself even though I know I should. Her eyes flick to my lips, then back again, and fuck. I’m barely holding on right now.
I want to kiss her more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone before.
“Ezra, what are you doing?”
Though her words come out in a whisper, they’re the loudest thing I’ve ever heard, and it’s enough to snap me out of my stupor.
I shove my shaking hands into my pockets, then nod toward the pinball machine she’s practically pressed against. “I’m teaching you how to play pinball.”
She swallows roughly, then spins around, and I exhale for what feels like the first time in minutes.
“Then get on with it, Mr. Rawlings.”
And that’s how we spend the next thirty minutes—her pressed against the machine, me standing over her shoulder, instructing her when to hit the buttons.
She’s terrible at it, but I don’t care.
It’s still the best thirty minutes I’ve had all day.
