Page 57 of Keepsakes and Kismet

“I want to kiss you.”

A tiny gasp escapes her.

“We don’t have to do anything about it, but I thought you should know.”

She pauses for a moment, before speaking so softly I almost miss it. “Tell me what you would do.”

“If I kissed you?”

“Yeah…” She worries her lower lip. “I want to be prepared.”

Does that mean what I think it means?

I don’t waste any time.

“I’d take a step closer to you, then cradle the back of your head with one hand, placing the other one on the small of your back. Then, I’d press my lips against yours, mouth closed. Once on your forehead after that.” I pause, considering how much is too much. “And maybe one on the tip of your nose. No. Two—for good measure.”

Her eyes soften around the edges, and she nods. “Okay.”

“…okay?”

“You can kiss me. I want you to kiss me,” she whispers.

Excitement. No nerves. A rush of undeniable anticipation hits me all at once. Weightlessness. Like I’m skydiving, but there’s soft earth beneath my feet grounding me.

We both lean in, and I reach up to caress her hair, which feels like silk between my fingers. Peyton doesn’t flinch or look uncomfortable. She just inches closer, licking a drop of apple juice off the corner of her lips.

And then, it happens. Not all at once, but in slow, deliberate steps.

A press of my lips on hers, finally tasting her cinnamon sugar chapstick. Another one, slower this time, and a wave of childhood nostalgia accompanies the apple juice dripping off her full lips. I savor the movement of her mouth against mine, trying to memorize what’s happening in case it never happens again. I hope it happens again. This layered and nuanced, entirely soul-stirring kiss.

I wonder if she can taste the passion on my lips, the longing in my breath. Gently pulling back and opening my eyes, I try to tell. Hers are still closed, and I press my lips to her forehead, lingering there, just breathing against her skin. Peyton softly sighs and leans back to look at me.

A tear escapes her eye and slides down her cheek toward her smile. She’s beaming. “I’m so… happy.”

More tears from Peyton trigger one of my own. I absentmindedly touch it, wetting my finger. I can’t even remember the last time I cried. It feels warm on my skin, and if it wasn’t for the cool wind coming in through the door, I think it’d stay that way, reflecting the contentment I feel in my chest. I always had this underlying fear of crying—like I wasn’t entitled to it. What if the catharsis made me feel better, when I deserved to feel sad? But the tears feel merited this time, like they’re for her as much as they are for me.

Desperately wanting to kiss each one of her tears but knowing we didn’t talk about that, I gently kiss the tip of her nose once, twice as planned, before removing my hand from her hair.

It takes every ounce of my willpower to step away from her. “That was the best kiss of my life, Peyton.”

“It was the same for me. The best kiss,” she whispers.

The wind blows her hair off her neck, and she shivers.

“You’re cold. We should head back.”

She frowns. “I kind of don’t want to head back.”

I exhale a laugh. “Me neither.”

Peyton closes the gap between us and carefully picks up my hand. “I guess it’s not so bad, heading back, if we’re holding hands like this.”

“And even better, if we hold them like this,” I murmur, intertwining our fingers.

We walk hand-in-hand the rest of the way, and I do my best not to change the pressure. When we reach the patio, she drops my hand to open the sliding door, and we head into the house.

“How did you two enjoy the garden?” Ma asks.