In fact, his hands slid from my back to hold me up from underneath, and he closed his eyes and sighed.
Sighed!
Right into my open mouth.
And it wasn’t a groan of pain. It sounded like pleasure…
It was in that exact moment I learned something new about myself. You see, I never understood the appeal of kissing, much lessanything more. I had kissed a total of two guys, and they were good kisses according to Lucy, my romance-loving friend. This kiss was anything but a normal definition of good, but my body reacted as if it was.
Tingled. Wantedmore.
I was teetering on the edge of letting that feeling take over, but thankfully, the salty, metallic taste of blood erased the desire.
The ride back to my house was roaring with awkward silence. Mostly because both of our lips were bleeding, so we had old napkins from a restaurant I had shoved away in my purse pressed to our faces. He dropped me off at the house and then left without saying another word.
And for the past two weeks, anytime we unintentionally bump into each other (not physically—we haven’t gotten remotely close enough to one another for that to happen), our topics of conversation revolve around three things:
One, the weather. (It’s like taking a shower from hell outside.)
Two, the election. (He’s still performing with lower poll numbers than Jay regardless of becomingextrasmall-town famous for running down Main Street to stop the bad man from hurting the damsel in distress, i.e., me.)
Three, his dates with Mallory. (He seems to enjoy being with her, so I’ve kept my feelings locked down tightly.)
The bell above the door sounds, so I rise from my elbow-propped position on the barista counter. Knightley strolls in, waving to customers and showing off his suave smile as usual. When he’s at the counter and turns his full attention on me, the smile dissipates as if it was only a figment of imagination.
“Americano?” I ask, already reaching for the twenty-four-ounce to-go cup. He nods, then places both hands on the counter.
“Janie?”
His low-toned use of the nickname only he calls me startles me, and I end up spilling espresso beans all over the floor.
That’s a future Janie problem, however.
“Hm?” I go about my business, collecting more beans. Why is he affecting me like this all of a sudden? Sure, I made him pretend to marry me when I was five and he was eighteen, but what little girl doesn’t do that with the trusted older men in her life? Heck, before it was him, I said I was going to marry my dad.
See?
Little Janie can’t be trusted.
Gah, quit calling yourself that! Say it with me: Emma. Jane.
The point is that Knightley has never had this hold on me. He’s never made me lose my balance or drop things. That’s for the clumsy romance heroines Lucy writes. Not me.
“I’m going to ask Mallory to officially become my girlfriend.”
The monster that arose from my soul when I saw her get out of his truck that night makes the briefest of reappearances before I force her down.
Yes, she’s a her.
And I think I’ll call her Mother Gothel. It’s fitting. Selfish, conniving Mother Gothel.
“Congratulations.” I’m speaking, but the voice belongs to someone else entirely.
Mother Gothel, probably.
I’m not doing a great job of keepingher at bay.
I focus on making his drink while he talks.
