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He hesitates a moment, before saying, “T.J.”
“T.J.,” I repeat. I don’t know a T.J. “And you don’t live here?”
He shakes his head. “Just visiting. I’m staying up there.” He gestures to my workplace—the Rolling Hills Resort—glittering against the hill across the river from downtown.
Okay. He’s from out of town. A traveling… gorgeous man.
Just do it, Cora, before you lose your nerve.
“Can I tell you why I was at the bar tonight?” I whisper.
T.J. doesn’t say anything.
“I wanted to be kissed.”
Those are almost the same words I said to Tristan Galloway that night all those years ago, when I was just a foolish girl, and not a foolish grown woman.It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I’ve never been kissed. It’s pathetic.
My cheeks had been streaked with tears that night too.
My tongue darts out of my mouth, wetting my lips without me thinking about it.
T.J.’s eyes go to my lips, but he hesitates. He lets go of my hand, taking a step back and reaching up behind his neck, as if to keep his hand occupied. “Cora, I need to—"
“No,” I whisper, cutting him off. I can’t fail at this. I can’t.
I won’t.
Someone better at this than me—someone like Mia—would say something flirtatious. Or at least clever. But I don’t know what to say. So I do the only thing I can think of—the thing I want to do. I drop my arm. The light may be behind him, but it’s fully illuminating me.
T.J. may be a gentleman, but he doesn’t stop his eyes traveling down my body to my tightened nipples, exposed through the still-damp fabric of my shirt.
He turns fully away. “Cora,” he whispers. “Fuck.”
I don’t wait. I bring my hands to his jaw, gently guiding him back to me. Can he hear the thunder of my heart? I turn his face toward me.
“Never mind,” I whisper. “I’ll do it myself.” Then I rise up on my toes, and press my lips to his.
The sharp jolt of electricity at the touch of his soft lips against mine nearly knocks me off my feet.
Even though at first, he doesn’t respond.
I pull away, my face only inches from his.
For a moment I think he’s going to back away. Maybe he would have, if I didn’t take his hand and press it to the thin, damp fabric of my shirt.
He groans, pulling his hand away.
But he doesn’t leave me. Instead, he brings his hands up to my cheeks. For a moment, our eyes meet. His expression is searching, almost pleading.
Then he crushes his lips to mine.
This time the kiss is intense. Deep. Desperate. His tongue probes my mouth, and he walks me backward, my face in his hands, until we both hit the cool brick wall behind me.
“Tristan,” I gasp. His lips are on my neck; his hot, needy kisses trailing down my throat.
Then I freeze. What the hell did I just say? I just called this random stranger my childhood crush’s name.
I’m about to apologize, but T.J. just brings his lips to my ear and breathes, “Yes.”
