“Mom said that too. Actually, she quoted Lao Tzu.”
“Ah, so awesome quotes run in the family, huh?”
I smiled and gave him a nod. “I do feel better after talking to you.”
“I’m glad. Me too. Sometimes we make mountains out of molehills in our heads when talking things out is so much better.”
I nodded again.
“Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?”
Well, there was . . .
“Come on, out with it,” he said. “We are on a roll tonight.”
I let out a rush of breath, quelling the sudden nerves. I had to get the words right in my head first... It took a moment, and Winter never rushed me.
“About touching my arm,” I began. “I want to get used to it. I don’t want you to have to censor yourself around me. You should be yourself, and I need to push my boundaries if I want to get used to it. I need to trust myself, and you.”
“Okay,” he said, looking into my eyes. I could read the confusion in his eyes, but still, he never pushed for more. He let me get it out on my own time.
I held up my hand, palm upward. “I want to hold your hand,” I whispered, feeling a rush of nerves and elation, and possibly nausea. “I want to know what that feels like.”
He had to duck down a bit so he could look up at my face, into my eyes. He was smiling. “I want to know what holding your hand feels like too.” He raised his hand to mine but stopped before contact, then held his hand, palm up, next to mine. “What about if you touch my hand first? That way you control it.”
I met his gaze then. He really did understand. He didn’t mock me or tell me I was being stupid. He gave me the power, the control, as he put it.
So with my index finger, I gently touched his palm. It was soft and warm, and my breath caught, my tummy did that swooping thing. I traced my finger up his index finger, skin on skin.
It was . . . exhilarating.
When I got to the tip of his finger, I pulled my hand back and met his gaze. His eyes were on me, his cheeks the pinkest I’d ever seen.
“How was that?” he asked.
“Uh . . .” I had to think . . .
“Not awful?”
“Not awful,” I agreed. “I liked it.”
He kept his hand up. “Try it again.”
I touched his palm again, this time with my index and middle fingers. Skimming his palm and along his fingers, still the barest of touches. I pulled my hand back with a puff of breath.
“Would you like me to try your hand?” he asked.
Did I want that?
Well, I did, yes. But could I?
I turned my hand over, showing my palm. My nervesmade my skin feel all weird so it probably wasn’t a good idea, but I wanted to try.
Then, like I’d done to him, he gently touched his finger to my palm and slowly up my index finger. But he didn’t watch our hands. He watched my face. “How’s that?”
I pulled my hand back and needed to wipe my palm on my jeans. “Tickles.”
Winter laughed. “It does! But it felt nice.”
