Page 56 of Kiss Slay Replay

I accept it. It’s heavier than I remember. “Did you refill this?”

“Made friends with the bartender.”

“I bet you make friends pretty easily, don’t you?”

“Aren’t we friends?” Him and that grin. Those dimples.

“I don’t know. Are we?” I take a sip of whiskey and give him back the flask. We approach the cabins. I hope I have my key. I open my bag and search inside.

“What’s…” he trails off.

I look up. “What? What’s what?”

“Nothing,” he says, taking another swig before screwing the cap back on.

“What’s nothing?” My tone is way too intense. I sound crazy.

He does his signature awkward laugh, rubs his jaw. “Your paranoia is making me paranoid.”

“I’m sorry. I…I’ve been on edge all day. Did you see something?”

“Nah,” he says. “I didn’t see anything.”

“All right. Cool.” I don’t believe him. I want to ask a million follow-ups, but I hold back, afraid to reveal that I am fucking crazy. I find the key card in my bag and climb the steps to the cabin. Danny follows. He takes a seat on the porch swing.

“You’re not coming in?” I ask him, pressing the card to the sensor. The lock whirs.

“Do you want me to come in?”

Fuck it. “Yes. I thought that was obvious.”

He swings—back and forth, back and forth—grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Well?”

He nods, lets his feet drag to stop the swing. He stands and walks toward me, pushes me inside and pins me against the wall, my face in his hands.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Please.”

He kisses me—and I recognize his lips. I know them because this isn’t our first kiss, even though it is. He’s so familiar to me. His measured aggression. The way his fingertips press into my waist, the precise pressure of his grip, where his hands will travel next. All the steps to this dance I’ve done before. I perform the choreography. I press my hips against him, slide my hands inside his suit jacket, run my thumbs along the space just above his belt with the promise of crossing that line.

This chemistry with Danny—maybe it’s cosmic. Maybe it defies logic. Maybe he feels so familiar because there’s something really special here between us.

His touch is a lightning strike. He reaches down, searching for the hem of my dress, and I let him find it. I let him flirt with my inner thighs.

I unbuckle his belt.

I lead him into my room and close the door behind us. I let everything else fall out of my head and give in to what feels good.

Give in to the romantic in me who I’d thought was dead.

—

We didn’t fully undress. My underwear is around here somewhere, along with my shoes, his pants, his boxers, the condom wrapper. His whiskey breath is sticky on my neck, our heads crowded on the same pillow, my sheets kicked to the floor.

I want to get up and go to the bathroom. I want to check my reflection—nervous that my makeup is smeared, that my hair is beyond saving. When I return to the reception it’ll be obvious what I’ve been up to. Not Danny. He can saunter back in with his perpetually disheveled hair, suit jacket draped casually over his shoulder, and no one will be the wiser.