“Let practicing be my distraction, like it always is.”
I peek over my shoulder to glance at him and his almost-beard grazes my skin. Our lips all but brush against each other as we stay nose to nose. “I can do that. What do you want to practice?”
“This.” He tucks a finger under my chin and raises his brow as if asking permission.
That single eyebrow raise sends a million questions spiraling through me. What if this wasn’t an act? How would he kiss me, for real? Would he be gentle or demanding? Would he cup my face and trace the seam of my lips like I’ve read in so many of my romance novels? Would I feel the sparks and fireworks I’ve long since given up on?
And then, maybe the most important question of all crashes through all the rest: Can I kiss him now and not get too attached?
Doubtful.
What would happen to us when my heart inevitably becomes irrevocably his?
But there’s an undeniable ache torturing my chest, and the yearning to know what his lips feel like pressed against mine wins out over everything else.
My teeth rake over my lower lip, and I nod. Jack leans in slowly and brushes his lips against mine in a gentle embrace. A warm feeling skitters down my bare legs and curls my toes. The intensity of the touch startles me, and I jolt away.
“I need to go pee,” I declare far too loudly. “You know, all that liquor—whoosh.”
Whoosh? Whoosh! You’re killing me, woman.
With incredible haste, I stand and bolt for the bathroom.
“Shit. Dessy—I didn’t mean—”
I don’t hear the rest of whatever Jack has to say, my feet carrying me faster than his words.
In the bathroom, I let the cool water from the sink fall along my wrists and calm my nerves. What the heck am I doing?
We’re supposed to be playing,practicing. Thisshould all be fine.
But there’s a pit in my stomach screaming that I’m not acting, and as far as Jack is concerned, I don’t need a mask or a character to be that foolish girl again.
Iwantto kiss Jack Parker.
And that’s a problem.
I’ve never wanted to kiss a romantic opposite in a play. It’s just been something we’ve had to do. Feelings were never involved.
So why can’t I turn my feelings off now?
Oh, heck, I’m such a terrible friend.
Jack is saving my butt and the fair, and I’m royally mucking it all up. Why am I letting my feelings get in the way when they should be tucked neatly in the bonnet box they belong in?
No, I can’t ruin the fair because of a silly crush. I can kiss Jack and have it mean nothing.
Our lips can touch, and my heart will remain unaffected. I’m sure of it.
But Jack needs to stop muddling my heart with all the sweet things he’s doing. Yes, that’s the problem. It has to be. George Wickham would not do sweet things like kiss my forehead and give me his flannel. How am I supposed to behave like Lydia Bennet when Jack’s suddenly more of a Bingley?
Swinging the bathroom door open, I’m greeted by the six-foot-four center shrouded in the hallway’s darkness. I can barely make out the bashful expression plastered on his face.
It’s endearing.
And endearing simply won’t do.
We need to correct this posthaste.
