I turn around to tell Bristol that but the sight of her so engrossed in her book has me pausing and taking in the gorgeous sight before me.
She’s tucked behind the circulation desk, legs crossed at the ankle, completely absorbed in whatever she’s reading. One elbow rests on the counter, her chin propped in her palm, glasses slightly slid down her nose. She turns a page, lips parting just a little while she holds her breath. I don’t mean to stare, but it’s hard not to.
There’s something about watching her like this—unguarded, relaxed—that gets under my skin. The absolute silence in the building, minus the soft rustle of paper. The way her brow creases, then smooths, as she hangs on every word.
I clear my throat and ask, “What’s happening in the book that has you so engrossed?”
She startles, looking up like she forgot I was even here. Her cheeks flush, then she smiles, a little sheepish, and closes the book halfway.
“I just got to thetfuck itmoment.”
My brows pull together. “The what?”
She laughs and stands, rounding the desk toward me, her book left sitting open. “You know. The moment where the tension has been building forever, and the hero finally snaps.”
She stops a few feet away, glancing at the wall before looking back at me.
“The moment he just can’t hold back anymore,” she continues. “Saysfuck it, pins the heroine to the wall, and kisses her senseless.”
A thrill, hot and electric snaps tight in my chest.
I take a step closer before I realize I’m moving. Close enough now that I can smell peppermint and cocoa. Close enough to see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose.
My voice comes out lower than I intend. “Like this?”
I don’t give her time to answer.
One hand pins her against the desk, the other cups her cheek. As I lean in, every nerve ending is screaming awareness. Her breath catches—soft, surprised—and then my mouth is on hers.
The kiss isn’t rushed.
It’s firm. And very deliberate, even if it was never part of my plan when I came here this morning.
I thought I would at least save our first kiss forafterour date.
Her lips are warm, faintly sweet, peppermint blooming against my mouth just like I imagined. She exhales into me, fingers curling lightly into the front of my plaid shirt, and that small sound nearly wrecks me.
I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in.
“Okay,” I murmur. “I might’ve changed my mind.”
Her lips curve into a smile I canfeel.
“About what?”
“Peppermint,” I say quietly. “I never was a big fan. Turns out I like the way it tastes on your lips.”
Her fingers tighten on the fabric of my shirt.
That small, instinctive reaction does something dangerous to my self-control.
I kiss her again—slower this time. Deeper. Less about proving a point or acting out a scene from a book and more aboutlistening. She responds immediately, softening into me, lips parting with a quiet sound that settles low in my gut.
The world narrows.
My hands slide to her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her hip, possessively. Like I’ve done this before. Like my body knows her even if my head is still catching up.
She tilts her head, gives me better access, and that’s all the permission I need.
