I just kiss him.
It makes me realize I don’t know how to just kiss a guy. Andrew’s kisses were like rewards for good behavior, and while I’ve kissed a few guys since Andrew, they weren’t the kind that made me feel anything except disappointment. One time I even shook a guy’s hand after we kissed and told him that I hoped he had a great life.His name was Brayden, and I really do hope he’s living a great life.
But I know kissing Evan is going to be different. It’s going to shatter me from within, making me want to puzzle everything I know about love back together in a new way. I just can feel it…wantto feel it.
“Okay,” I reply to Mal, like this is some kind of assignment, and well…I am valedictorian.
If kissing is going to get a grade today, I am going to set the curve.
I take a deep breath and list five things I’m grateful for.
Evan. That Evan kissed my cheek. That Evan is probably thinking about me. That there’s more to Evan than what he lets people see, but he let me see part of him. That I have lips I can kiss Evan with…and that I’m going to make sure it’s the kind of kiss that the movies are made from.
That’s technically six things I’m grateful for, and they aren’t hard to come up with.
I smile into the phone. “Thanks, Mal.”
“Anytime,” she says. “Go get your dream man.”
I stand from my bed with determination. I don’t even care that my curls are wild today. I feel wild inside, so my hair is perfect. Then, I call Melanie to see where that insanely energetic and overly-scheduled woman has planned for Evan to be today.
Chapter 37
Evan
Anotherbookstore.Anotherline.Another hour to put time between Rachel and me. I keep checking my phone discreetly because I try to give my fullest attention to the fans. I know I wouldn’t be here today without them. They matter, and they deserve a small smile, a nod, an acknowledgement of my gratitude.
But I should have put my foot between the door and its frame last night, letting Rachel crush it if she wanted to. I don’t need my foot anyway. It’s useless in my career.
Because all I can think about is kissing her. What it will feel like. Because not kissing her is driving me so crazy I know I’ll become a wild lunatic as soon as her lips are on mine, our breaths becoming one if we have any breath left at all. And I want to feel the mess, the desire, the loosening of my control…
I steal another look at my phone under the table between fans. No text. I bounce my feet. My whole body is restless.
“Mr. Michaels, I just love your books!” a woman exclaims in a reserved, polite squeal as she hugs her copy ofDead Silenceto her chest.
I meet her excited eyes and smile. “Thank you.”
I put my hand out to take her book so I can sign it. She watches every movement I make, from the flex of my hand because it’sbeginning to cramp, and the way my pen moves as I watch the ink create my signature on the page. But as I add thesto the end of my name, I notice there’s a slight commotion in the line.
Commotion isn’t unusual. People get excited when they find others who want to talk about my books.But there’s something different about this commotion. The sensation of it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand as if my body knows something before my brain does.
When I look up, the lady I was signing the book for is gone, and there’s Rachel. Grinning widely, her cheeks flushed, her hair wilder than ever, and her green eyes glittering with something that looks like both mischief and freedom.
“Hi,” she says on an exhale. She looks like she’s been running and is trying to catch her breath. Her hands grip the edge of the other side of the table, and she leans over. Her smile makes my pulse stutter.
“Hi,” I reply, feeling the corners of my mouth ache as they stretch out, unaccustomed to giving grins so easily and often.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks, tilting her head, teasing me.
“Oh, just sitting here,” I answer, leaning back in my chair. “It looked like a good place to…sit.”
She glances around. “It does look like the best seat in the place.”
Then, this beautiful woman that I don’t even know why I hated in the first place, who seems to be bursting with some kind of I’m-on-a-mission energy, hops up on the table, her bum becoming a swivel as she spins her legs around and slides toward me and back off the table until she’s in my lap, the closest we’ve ever been, and all my senses realize it at once.
“It is the best seat,” she confirms.
I hear whistling, clapping, groans, and the background noise of everyone most likely documenting what’s happening on their phones.
