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Butterflies burst open in my chest, and before I could think it through, I brought his hand up to my mouth and gently kissed the swollen knuckle.
Our eyes locked. Heat zipped across my skin, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
For a moment, I feared I hurt him before he said, “You were flirting with him.”
My lips parted, ready to defend myself, but his eyes held onto mine and the pain I saw there stopped me. “I wasn’t,” I said, my voice soft before I reached out and slowly smoothed the crease in his brow with my fingers. Then I trailed my thumb down the side of his face, and his expression transformed.
I brushed his jaw and glided my finger across the sharp angle of his chin, rough with stubble. All of high school, I’d claimed to be holding out for an older, wiser, more mature guy. And even though Thorne was nineteen, he seemed so much older than the boys I went to school with.
I swallowed, ignoring the way my heart raced. “He made a terrible joke, and I laughed. It was nothing more.”
His eyes searched mine like he wanted to believe me. “Can I ask you something?”
I nodded.
“Does it ever feel like maybe we’re not just pretending?” His voice turned soft as he continued, “Like maybe . . . there’s more?” His gaze dipped to my mouth.
“Thorne,” I said, finding it hard to speak. To breathe.
And before I could finish my sentence, he reached out and cupped my face in his hand, pulling me in. I closed my eyes, helpless to stop him because a part of me wanted to feel his lips on mine again. Part of me wanted to see if the first time had been a fluke or if he tasted as good as I remembered.
Our lips met, and my head spun. The world fell away until I was no longer in a car, on my way back home. Instead, I was floating. Weightless.
His lips brushed lightly over mine, and when he moved his hand to my side of my neck, my pulse thrummed underneath his fingers like a hummingbird searching for nectar.
The first kiss may have curled my toes, but this one was an out-of-body experience.
I was seventeen years old, and though I’d been kissed a few times, none of them compared to this. None of them gave me goosebumps or sent fireworks rocketing under my skin. None of them made my head buzz and my belly ache for more.
I drew him closer, fisting his shirt in my hands until he pressed me back into the seat. One hand slid down my side, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Time paused. The Earth stopped turning on its axis.
There was nothing but Thorne and me and this kiss. And I could feel all the things he didn’t say through the urgency in his lips. How he needed me more than I needed him.
When the car rumbled to a stop, Big Joe cleared his throat, and it jerked me out of the moment.
I froze, and Thorne pulled away, his breath labored as his eyes searched mine.
“Excuse me, sir. We’ve arrived at Miss Scarlett’s home.”
His gaze drifted from my eyes back to my lips, and I selfishly hoped he’d ignore him and kiss me again when he said, “Can I walk you up?”
My heart wanted to say yes. The wild pumping in my chest confirmed it. But slowly, the feel of his lips faded, and I licked them as if brushing the memory of his mouth away. This was just a game. A publicity stunt. Regardless of what Thorne had said about feeling like we were more than an arrangement, I’d served my purpose tonight and to allow this to go any further would be a reckless risk to my heart.
Because he was Thorne Roberts. And after he finished filming his latest movie, he’d move on to bigger and better things, and I’d be forgotten.
So I shook my head and said, “No. I’ve got it.”
Then, before he could argue, I shifted out from under his grasp, ignoring the way his face fell, and opened the door.
THORNE
I paced the floor of my hotel room the next morning, raking my hands through my hair when Trainer called. Pausing to stare outside the window, the city below already bustled with life. Skyscrapers lit the dawn and traffic zipped by while pedestrians strolled down the sidewalk.
I clicked the answer button, unsure of what to expect from him. Apparently, posts were already cropping up on social media and entertainment news channels about my exchange with Davis, which was only a fraction of how bad it would’ve been had Scarlett not been there.
“How bad is it?” I asked, wasting no time.
“You’re either the luckiest bastard or the dumbest. Probably both.”
