I scoff, face him fully, poke his chest with the hand not clutching a mug of champagne. “I amsonice. You just think you’re so much better than me.”
“Four.”
“I don’t think that, Nora,” he says softly. And this close, looking up at him, his hair fallen out from behind his ear, everything smells likeFinn. Like vanilla and citrus, a scent thatreminds me of Christmas despite the fact that he wears it all year round. It’s probably some expensive cologne, something that comes in a black bottle, that has a tassel on the squeeze pump, something he bought to impress his fancy lawyer bosses at his fancy lawyer job.
“Three.”
But I’m on a roll now. I can’t stop myself. “Prove it,” I say. “Kiss me.” I also didn’t mean to saythat.
“Two.”
Finn’s frown deepens. A crease between his brows that is almost always present on his face when he looks at me; present so often, it makes me wonder what his face looks like without it.
“You don’t want me to kiss you,” he says slowly, assuredly, his voice pitched low. Like he is reminding me that we don’t like each other, like he is protecting me from the serious mistake I am about to make.
But then he looks at my mouth, his sky blue eyes intent and serious.
And this is exactly why I didn’t mean to say that. Because now, he has to. Because I do not need Finn to protect me from anything, least of all myself. Because I am not afraid ofFinn. Because the moment he saidYou don’t want me to kiss you, suddenly, I did.
If only to prove him wrong.
“One.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
He sighs. I can’t hear it over the din around us, the “Happy New Year’s” and “I love yous” and delighted squealing and Bea’s continued scream-singing, but I’ve known him since we were twelve. I’ve known our friend group since then. So, I’ve learned his laughs, his frowns, whether I wanted to or not. I know when he’s frustrated and trying to hide it and when he’s tired after a week of taking testimony at work. I know that he picks tomatoesoff his sandwiches but drowns his fries in ketchup. And I know his sighs, his frustrated ones, and his tired ones, his affectionate ones, his contented ones.
This one is beleaguered. Very much so.
Finn steps closer. He sets his red plastic cup on the counter and takes my drink, too. “Okay.” He cups my elbow. I don’t think Finn has ever touched me there before, the tips of his fingers soft against the skin of my upper arm. He smells so good, intoxicating in a way that our champagne can only aspire to be. “If you’re sure,” he says, giving me an out.
Not that I’ll take it. “I am,” I whisper. “Are you?”
He shakes his head, likeno, but says, “Yes.”
And then his lips slide over mine. I’d call it cautious if it wasn’t for the way his thumb traces the shell of my ear, finds the small gold hoop, tugs on the lobe. Cautious, except for the way that Finn is teasing me even when his mouth is preoccupied.
He pulls away just enough to say “Happy New Year” quietly against my lips, the words humming along my skin, so I feel more than hear them. His voice travels along my throat and pools into my collarbone.
He kisses me again, even though everyone knows a New Year’s kiss doesn’t last this long, but I don’t stop him.
It can be for research! So I can tell Bea if he’s a good kisser!
I don’t stop him. Not when he threads his fingers through my hair and not when he presses his hand to my lower back, his pinky, then his ring finger, veering only slightly into upper-ass territory.
His mouth is slick, and he tastes sweet, like the cheap champagne we poured. And there’s absolutely no reason for it, none whatsoever, but I have to put my hands on his biceps—thick, muscly, surprising—my fingers brushing the sleeves of his black T-shirt.
Not because I’ve lost my balance, not because I feel dizzy—and even if I did it would be from the champagne, even though I’ve been nursing that drink all night—andnotfrom Finn. Or his lips. Or his kisses.
Ihaveto press my body to his. Because I have to know if our bodies line up as perfectly as I feel they would. And it turns out they do. The satisfying click of that final piece into the last empty spot of a thousand-piece puzzle. It’s something I never would have known if it wasn’t for this, for kissing him, and it’s data, just data, that’s all it is. Information to collect about kissing Finn.
Except.
Except for the heat that pools low in my belly, the moan that he swallows with his tongue. I’m kissing Finn and it’s not terrible. It’s not theworstkiss I’ve ever had.
It might be the best.
I’m kissing Finn and it’s like fireworks, the fizz and the pop, the sweet, aromatic burn in the air, a starburst of light and color behind my closed eyes.
