My lungs forget how to function, my knees feel like wet noodles, and my brain? Gone. Full system reboot.
Holy hell, did that really just happen?
I half-expect her to step back, maybe regret it—but then she looks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and smiles. Not the polite kind. The real one. The one that makes the rest of the world blur.
"I think..." she says, voice small but sure, "I think I like kissing you."
And just like that, I'm done for.
I've never done drugs, but if euphoria had a flavor, it'd taste exactly like this moment—like her breath still ghosting on my lips, like sunlight bottled in human form. I'm dizzy, grinning so wide it hurts, and I swear I could sprint laps around the rink right now.
I dip my head again, unable to help myself, and press a quick, gentle kiss to her lips—soft, sweet, and over too soon.
"Good," I murmur, my voice rough with a grin tugging at it. "'Cause I think I'm already addicted to yours, sugarplum."
Her laugh bubbles out—quiet, breathy, beautiful—and my heart just... flips.
Yeah. I'm screwed. The happy kind of screwed.
CHAPTER thirty-six
CAROLINE
It's been over two weeks since Zach and I kissed—well, if you can evencallthat a kiss.
It was more like we tried to inhale each other's souls through the mouth. In public.
Seriously, that has to be the wildest thing I've ever done in my life—and I once let Sam convince me to ride a mechanical bull after two cans of Red Bull.
Anyway, that night is forever tattooed in my brain, and every time I think about it, I still...gush.Like, full-on blushy, leg-kicking, hide-my-face-with-a-pillow level of embarrassment and joy all rolled into one.
We've kissed a few more times since then—each one slower, softer, sweeter. And don't get me wrong, they're amazing. But none of them were aswildas that first one. It's like Zach's decided to play the role of a gentleman now, all patient and tender...
Meanwhile, I'm over here thinking,Zach, stop being a gentleman and just take me!
Then I mentally slap myself.
Caroline, what the hell? Pull it together, woman.
It's gotten worse lately. Like, embarrassingly worse. It's as if that one kiss rewired my brain, hit the reset button on my self-control, and now it's permanently stuck on"I want him to kiss me like it's an Olympic sport and I'm going for gold"mode.
It's bad. Like, if kissing him were a drug, I'd be in rehab by now. The man's lips are basically my new religion.
But, of course, I can't exactlysaythat. I don't want to come off as clingy or make it obvious how much I'm craving him. Especially since—plot twist—we haven't even officially put a label on whateverthisis.
Almost three weeks.
Threeverykiss-filled, heart-fluttering, label-less weeks.
And I want to slam my head against a wall every time I remember I was the one who told him not to call mehis girland thatwe're not together.
What kind of idiot move was that?
But he did say we didn't have to label anything yet if I wasn't ready—because apparently, we've always"known what we are"from the start.
Which sounds romantic and all... until I realized"what we are"doesn't come with official permission for unlimited make-out sessions.
If we had that label—if he were officially my boyfriend—then I could stop second-guessing everything. I could kiss him whenever, wherever, however I want without my brain screamingis this too much? is this allowed?
