“Yeah?”
She sneaks a peek at my mouth. There’s a question there.
“Might as well practice now, right?”
The words barely register before she fists the front of my coat and leans in. A quick press of her lips on mine, a moment of lingering where she searches my eyes, light and testing.
I freeze.
Tick. Tock. Boom.
Instinct detonates. I catch her jaw, pull her closer, swallow the startled breath that slips from her. She opens for me, andthat’s it—everything I’ve been holding back since that damn dance snaps. Her tongue brushes mine, her fist knots in my collar, and the sound she makes rips through me.
My heart nearly detaches itself, it’s pounding so hard.
I’m wrecked. Every nerve lit, every thought stripped to need. I taste pure sorcery. My hand tangles in her hair. I want her under me, against me, out of the damn coat that’s in my way.
A taste of cocoa lingers, her perfume clings to my skin, her breath shudders against me when I tilt deeper. For a second I swear I could live right here, between heartbeats, with her breath on mine and the world locked outside.
The driver clears his throat.
Reality sucker-punches me.
I tear away, chest heaving. She doesn’t look fazed; she bites my bottom lip on her way out of the kiss, smooths her coat, and says, brisk as hell, “This will do.”
No. This will notfuckingdo.
Because somewhere in the last thirty seconds, this stopped being about Hannah. Stopped being about proving anything to anyone back home.
This is about the way Joy tastes of cocoa and trouble. The way she looks at me like I’m solid ground.
I try to remember how to breathe while she scrolls her phone casually, as if she hadn’t just shifted the axis of my world.
She won’t look at me. Her cheeks are pink, her breathing not quite steady.
My skin tingles. My heart won’t settle.
She’s in my bloodstream already.
LaGuardia is holiday hell—Santahats, crying toddlers, rolling suitcases clipping ankles. We weave through the mess, me hauling her bag, her boots sharp against the tile.
Then I stop dead in front of an airport jeweler. Bright lights, glass cases full of diamonds.
Joy frowns. “Wesley. No?—”
“We need proof,” I cut in. “A ring.”
“We could get something cheap. This is just for a few days. A costume jewelry place. Or, I don’t know, a Ring Pop.”
“A Ring Pop.”
“It’s economical!”
“Joy.” I steer her toward the door. “My hometown gossips for sport. They’ll spot a fake diamond from the parking lot.”
“This is insane?—”
“If we’re doing this,” I say, gaze locked on the case, “we’re doing it right.”
