Page 52 of The Overtime Persuasive

That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. People kiss all the time. It happens in movies, at weddings, and occasionally in the shadow of a twelve-foot skeleton scaling someone’s balcony. It could have been the atmosphere. The rain for sure didn’t help.

Yes. That’s it. It was a temporary loss of good judgment brought on by excessive exposure to tasteful autumn décor.

There are explanations. Plenty of them. Except none of those explanations account for the part where the kiss ended, and I kissed him again.

Or the part where we ran through the rain, found shelter beneath an awning, and then kept kissing.

I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly, but that only brings the memory of his fingers sliding through my wet hair into sharper focus. His hard, muscular body pressed against mine. The rough edge in his voice when he said my name.

A tiny squeak escapes me, and I bury my face in the pillow.

This is bad.

Not bad-bad. Obviously. The kissing itself was extremely not bad. If kissers were assigned performance reviews, Liam Snyder would receive an enthusiastic invitation to continue exceeding expectations. Summa cum laude. Five stars, would happily kiss again. And again. And again.

It’s everything surrounding the kissing that presents a problem.

I roll over, and groan.

Liam is supposed to be arrogant and annoying and someone I tolerate because his twin sister is one of my favorite people on earth. He is not supposed to look at me as though he sees every trick I use to keep people from getting too close. He definitely isn’t supposed to tell me I don’t have to make things smaller with him, of all people. He is also not supposed to take up this much space in my thoughts first thing in the morning, that’s for sure.

And I am absolutely not supposed to believe what he says. That’s the part that has been replaying over and over since last night. Not the rain. Not his hands. Not even the way he kissed me, although, sweet angels above, my brain has preserved that memory in high definition.

Even several kisses—which could reasonably be grouped together as one extended kissing event—do not change everything. The store will still open this morning, my café still closed. I still owe the city twelve thousand dollars, and there are subscription boxes waiting downstairs to be planned for next month.

Nothing has changed.

Mitch gets up, circles twice, and steps directly onto my stomach before settling there, causing me to grunt beneath his weight.

“Thank you. I needed someone to physically crush all optimism out of me.”

He begins to purr.

Nothing has changed, I remind myself. I only kissed Liam. And, yes, he then decided to kiss me back so good that I’m now stuck here, lying in bed on a Saturday morning, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

So, fine. Maybe one thing has changed.

I yelp when the alarm on my phone erupts from the nightstand. Mitch launches himself off my stomach, using at least three of his claws for traction on the way, and disappears over the side of the bed.

“Ow!” I grab my phone and silence the alarm. The reminder beneath it reads:

YOGA. 9:00. YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING!

“Oh, right.” I push myself upright. Apparently, last night’s Eva thought this morning’s Eva would want to cosplay someone who rises early and exercises.

Mitch reappears beside the bed, his tail swishing back and forth.

“I’m coming.”

He walks away when I throw back the comforter and climb out of bed. I follow him into the living room, laughing out loud yet again as I gather my yoga mat from beside the bookcase and find my sneakers beneath the couch.

“Oh my God, Mitch. It was such a good kiss.” I clutch the yoga mat to my chest. “So good.”

The giggle comes again. I don’t recognize this version of myself. She’s bubbly. She’s glowing. She might start skipping at any moment, and if that happens, I’m calling for medical assistance. I’ll get an alert necklace that says DNR IF LAUGHING. Then I can leave this earth a happy woman.

I carry the mat into the kitchen and prop it beside the door, then pick up my phone. There is one person I would usually tell about this.

If I kissed a man in the rain and woke up the next morning still able to feel his hands on me, I would text Lucy before I even got out of bed. I would give her every detail, beginning with what I wore and ending with an unnecessarily thorough assessment of his technique.