We're standing too close. Close enough I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and warm—and see the way his pulse jumps in his throat. The bar noise fades to white noise around us.
"We should talk," he says. "Outside."
"Fine."
The cold air hits my face and I can finally breathe again. The parking lot is half-empty, lit by a single streetlight and the neonglow from the bar's windows. Music thumps through the walls, muffled now.
"What the hell was that?" Dean asks as soon as the door swings shut.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I was being polite to someone."
"You were letting her climb you like a tree."
"I was not—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "Okay. Maybe she was being forward. But I didn't invite it."
"You didn't stop it either."
"I was about to. And then you came over and marked your territory like?—"
"I did not mark my territory."
"You told her we had plans tomorrow."
"We do have plans tomorrow."
"No, we don't."
"We do now. I’m calling in my rain check because of my emergency visit today."
He stares at me. I stare back. We're standing close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
"What is this?" He scrubs a hand through his hair. "What the hell are we doing, Callie?"
I don't have an answer. Don't know if I want one.
"Do you want me to leave you alone?" His voice drops. "Because I will. Right now. Just say the word."
"Is that what you want?"
"That's the opposite of what I want."
He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. "I want to know why you marched across a crowded bar to interrupt a conversation you pretended not to care about."
"I told you. We had plans."
"We didn't have plans."
"Maybe I wanted plans."
Something shifts in his expression. The teasing falls away, replaced by something raw and honest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses me.
Or maybe I kiss him. It's hard to tell who moves first—one second we're arguing, the next his mouth is on mine and my hands are fisted in his shirt and nothing else matters.
