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His touch didn’t hurt, but the accusation did. He commanded attention. There was a strength and intensity in his fingers that made my pulse roar.
“I hear everything you tell me,” I said.
“But you’re not actually listening.” The power that spilled from him stole my breath. “Pay attention. You’re intelligent. Funny. Gorgeous—head to toe andeverybit in between. I’m here because I want to get to know you. Period. No qualifiers.”
I couldn’t grasp a response. The best I could manage was to stare back with wide eyes.
“Are we on the same page now?” he asked.
I nodded.
Kingston’s grin was back. The flipped switch between serious and playful was almost as disconcerting as the way my body reacted to him. “Good.” He crushed his lips to mine, and spent several seconds licking, nibbling, and dancing his tongue around mine.
I was breathless when he pulled away.
“Picnic awaits.” He pulled back onto the road.
Should I be scared of the mercurial moods? I didn’t get the impression he’d hurt me, or that he’d even consider it. What I did see was an alternate version of what I did. I hadn’t wanted to admit such a sexy, self-assured guy could be dealing with any sort of insecurity, but he was hiding something under the humor. Not about me, but about how he wanted the world to see him versus how he thought it did.
“Tell me about you,” Kingston said.
I had a practiced pitch I could give to most people when they asked this question. If Owen had asked me directly last night, he’d have gotten the same thing. “I was raised in a happy, lower middle-class family, went to private school—”
“Uniform? Plaid skirt, white shirt, knee-high socks?”
“Khaki’s and polo shirts.”
“Don’t destroy the fantasy.” Yup, playful Kingston was back. “That image is going in its own folder in my brain.”
“I own one. A short plaid skirt.” Why did I say that? Because I loved this attention, duh.
He licked his lips. “Even better. Sorry to interrupt, fantasy saved, please continue.”
I’d been thrown out of the rhythm of my story. “Umm... dance in high school”—I almost stalled on the memory, thanks to my derailed train of thought, but I bit back the negative association—“community college, Associate’s in business, office manager work while I saved my pennies, and then I found a cheap house up for auction, which brings us to here.”
“I feel like there are some pieces missing in that story.”
“I could say the same to you.” I meant as far as his tale about how they’d bought their first shop.
“Youwerelistening.”
Of course. Listening and my self-doubt clashed, but I heard what he said. “I told you so.”
“So I caught up onSpring Popcorn. There are absolutely no dragons or Nazi’s,” he said.
I was grateful he didn’t press my omission of information. “No? Maybe I read a different version.”
“The one in your head?” His tone was teasingly accusatory.
“Exactly.”
We slid fromSpring Popcornto other manga and comics, our favorite TV shows and books... It was easy to talk to him. I suspected as much, based on our previous conversations, but there was some doubt with us talking one-on-one. I liked that we had so much in common, and that what we didn’t wasn’t an obstacle.
He drove us into Big Cottonwood Canyon, navigating the roads with practiced ease. He wasn’t intimidated by mountain driving.
We parked a way back from the main roads, in a wooded clearing. The scents of dirt, pine trees, rain, and the faint hint of Kingston’s cologne were borderline arousing.
He shut off the engine. “I may not have thought this through one-hundred percent.”
