Page 46 of Gave Proof Through the Night

I wanted his mouth on mine. I wanted it with an intensity that should probably concern my crew, my conscience, and possibly a licensed professional. Instead I got a cheek kiss like I’m his weird aunt at Thanksgiving, and now he’s pulling back just far enough to look extremely pleased with himself, like restraint is a personality trait he’s proud of.

Am I a bad person to want more? Probably.

“Give me time,” he says, low, way too satisfied with himself for a man who just settled for a cheek. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”

I make a sound.

I want to be very clear that I did not plan this sound. It escapes on its own, a short, disgusted little huff through my nose, the universal noise for are you kidding me right now, except it comes out sounding a lot more like a wounded groan, and his whole face changes.

Something dawns on him. Slow, then all at once, like a man realizing he left the stove on.

“Oh no,” he says.

Oh no? Is he already regretting kissing me? Is a cheek kiss grounds for regret? Because if so we need to establish new house rules immediately, starting with more mouth, less cheek.

“Oh no?” I repeat, and I hear the wobble in it, because the thought ‘is he already regretting kissing me?’ is doing laps in my skull.

“I’m so gullible.” He drags a hand down his face, and it is deeply unfair how good he looks doing something as mundane as expressing regret. “Is your birthday actually today? Or did I just fall for a genius marketing campaign?”

Oh.

Oh.

He thinks the shirt worked him like a con. Which, to be fair, is extremely close to the actual plan, minus the part where the con was supposed to be about a gala guest list and not a man’s whole heart, but I’m not about to clarify that distinction right now.

“It’s really my birthday,” I say.

“Seriously.”

“Seriously.” I cross my heart, right over the glittery letters currently shedding onto his shirt. “I was born on the same day as this great country.”

He snorts, and it’s such an unguarded, un-cheek-kissing-gentlemanly sound that something in my chest does something embarrassing. “Funny. You don’t look two hundred fifty years old.”

“Drop the zero and you’ve got bingo.”

“Twenty-five?”

I nod. “I can now unironically sing that 4 Non Blondes song.”

“So what do you want to do for your birthday?” One eyebrow goes up. “Take a big breath and scream ‘what's going on’ at the top of your lungs?”

The way he’s looking at me right now, the proximity, the ghost of his mouth still warm against my cheek, is doing things to my internal monologue that a licensed therapist would have a field day with. I am already internally screaming. I do not, in fact, care what’s going on. I would like more of what’s going on, please, preferably targeted slightly to the left of where his mouth landed the first time.

Admitting that out loud would be, at minimum, a felony against my own dignity.

Instead, I settle on, “You can buy me a corn dog for starters.”

“A corn dog.”

I drag my gaze across his broad chest and let him watch me do it. “I suddenly have a craving.”

His jaw ticks. “For a corn dog.”

“Sure.” I smile, all teeth. “Let’s call it that.”

We leave the Hall of Mirrors, and the heat outside hits like a steamy towel, but it’s somehow refreshing compared to the Hall of Mirrors. The Mall stretches out in front of us, packed with families and flags and several thousand strangers who’ve clearly all had too much lemonade. Somewhere a brass band is murdering “Yankee Doodle.” Somewhere else a toddler is screaming about a balloon animal. The humidity here is thick and clingy, and within the hour, turns Jeremiah’s white shirt distractingly transparent in places I choose not to comment on.

Abs, okay?