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She had yet to realize she’d struck me mute and nonchalantly handed me her black cashmere long coat. I took it from her, my hands trembling, and she turned. I helped her into it and swept her hair away from the collar.
She turned her head, her back still to me, and whispered, “Thank you.”
My mouth went severely dry when she turned toward me once more, still unaware and began fastening her buttons.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her face shining.
I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come. I tried to swallow, but I wasn’t able.
“Are you okay?” she asked. I shook my head like a fool. “Let me get you some water,” she said, looking concerned.
As she began to walk off, I grabbed her hand and drew her to me. I curled both her hands into my chest and as she searched my face, I searched hers. I wrapped my arms around her tiny back and inhaled the scent of her hair, my eyes sliding to the back of my head.
The perfume sparked a memory in me, reminding me of that night I sat at her back and the wind whipped the bouquet of her hair at me. I recalled wishing so badly to run my fingers through her hair, so I sat back a little, ran my hands up her back and neck before cupping her cheeks in both my palms. My thumbs gently caressed her cheekbones briefly before I broke the contact and threaded her curls through my fingers. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply each time I would slide a strand between my forefinger and thumb.
“So soft,” I quieted. She opened her eyes and we stared directly into one another. “You make it difficult for me to talk,” I admitted.
“Do I?” She smiled.
“Very much so,” I smiled back.
“Shall I needle it out of you?” she asked.
“And how would you accomplish that, Miss Hunt?”
Her heels gave her a few inches and she reached my neck easily. She kissed me tenderly at the base of my throat, making me chuckle low in my chest.
“That’s not making it,” I paused as she kissed that spot softly again, “any easier.”
She pulled back. “Say what you need to say, Spencer,” she said thoughtfully.
“I bought you something,” I told her.
Her eyes widened and I placed a small orange paper box with gold filigree on the top.
“It’s a James Avery,” I explained.
“I can see that.”
She opened the box and emptied the gray leather pouch inside and its contents into her hand. Out slid a small charm bracelet with a single charm of a dogwood flower. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes began to gloss. I fixed it on her wrist.
“Don’t cry,” I told her. “It kills me when you cry.”
She let a tear slip. “Sorry,” she giggled and I leaned down to kiss it away.
“This,” she choked, examining the details of the charm, “is…” A few more tears escaped. “Now I’m speechless.”
I laughed. “Cricket, you’re so beautiful,” I told her, referring to her massive heart.
“Thank you.”
“No, let me finish,” I told her, breathing in deeply. “You’re more than beautiful. You’re this bright, clean, exquisite light. Just being near you is a balm to my dejected heart.”
At that, her hand found my heart and she pressed there.
“And,” I continued, topping her hand with mine, “I’ve never met anyone as astounding as you. You’re so fair it almost hurts if I stare too long. But-but I can’t help it. If you’re near, I have to watch every single movement, memorize every step, every gesture. You captivate me and I—” I declared, but she cut me short.
She looked around us.
