“Then don’t run from me,” he says with nearly believable severity.
“How else will I get you to catch me if I don’t?” I taunt with a challenging grin.
He turns his face to conceal the smile I made him crack, and this instantly becomes my new favorite game.
“Wow.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “Well, I caught you. Now what?”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t kiss me. That would beawful.”
I reach to pinch his side, but he anticipates the move and catches my wrist, pinning my hand over my head.
Repeating the same failed attack with my other hand, he swipes it up and … darn.
What an unfortunate predicament.
My heart races remembering the last time I was in this position. Tuesday night after the coffee shop—his birthday.
The whipped cream incident.
I swallow hard, detecting the moment our thoughts match.
He lowers his face millimeters from mine. “Okay, I won’t.”
My stomach drops. “You won’t?” I’m already sweating, but much more of this and I’ll burst into flames.
“No, ma’am,” he drawls, tortuously close. “Boundaries. You saiddon’t.”
“Oh. Well, that sucks,” I say.
“It does.” He raises a brow and tilts his head. “But I’m flexible if you ever change your mind.”
“H-how would one go about that?”
He watches me run my teeth over my bottom lip. “Just tell me what you want.”
“You,” I profess, feeling awfully bold to be outside my mom’s house in broad daylight.
“You’ve got me.Nowwhat?”
“Ugh.Please?” I whine in what must be someone else’s voice.I do not whine.
“Sosweet.” He presses closer, resting his forehead against mine. “I’ll do anything you say. Just ask.”
I love that he hasn’t stopped messing with me, and I know he’s messing with me, becausesweetI am not.
My heart pounds, and desperate words tumble from my mouth. “Maybe what I love about you is how I never have to ask. You always know—”
“Fair point,” he concedes as he silences my argument with expert-level efficiency, and what starts with sweet playful kisses rapidly escalates.
Mom will definitelyhear from the neighbors about this.
As late afternoon slips into evening, Jude and I decide we’d be better equipped to face our circumstances if we ate nachos about it. We separate to opposite ends of the house to clean up for our first real date, since we spent the entire day in the rumpled athletic clothes we’d slept in.
It’s been a low-key messy bun, baggy T-shirt kind of day, but not once have I been compared to a twelve-year-old boy. Perks of dating your best friend.
Is that what this is?Dating?
It’s such a ridiculous way to describe our relationship. It’s too much, too soon yet doesn’t remotely scratch the surface.
