The memory of his mouth devouring mine as I sit on the counter of the CVS self-checkout flashes in my mind, then the night we made out on the couch to test his heart rate, and the sweet, lazy kisses we shared in my bed this morning.
What’s it like? It’s enough to ruin me.
“Nothing particularly memorable,” I lie again, though it’s getting harder and harder to get the words out, especially when I can’t even remember why I’m hiding it in the first place.
Am I avoiding the truth for Rowan’s sake? Or am I just afraid to fess up to the way he makes me feel?
The clicking of a camera interrupts my thoughts, and Loren zooms in on the image of my reddened face before turning her phone around to show me.
“Liar, liar … panties on fire,” she drawls, and I cringe.
“It’s … not what …” I stumble over an explanation, but she’s not buying it, anyway.
“Claire,” she begins, her tone softening. “For what it’s worth, he never even tried to kiss me.”
As stupid as it is, relief floods my chest. “He didn’t?”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Oh,” I breathe. Why does this small bit of information feel so significant?
“Sure you don’t wanna tell me all about it, especially since you can hold it over my head?” she offers once more. “I promise, it’ll be for my ears only.”
I twirl the end of my braid around my finger as I consider it. She’s right, I haven’t really had the chance to dish about this to anyone. And I think I might want to.
Hell, who am I kidding? I’mdyingto talk about Rowan.
“Why would you care? You’re married to Blake the Snake. I’m sure you have much spicier stories to share,” I reply, my lips twitching as I stifle another smirk.
Her eyebrows bounce suggestively as she pulls out the chair beside her and pats the open seat. “You’re right. I might very well be married to the sexiest man alive,” she muses with a dreamy sigh.
I give her a noncommittal shrug as I go around to plop myself down onto the chair. “You haven’t seen much of Rowan, I presume.”
Her eyes sparkle. “No, but I’d love to hear about it.”
“He’s absolutely gorgeous,” I say with a groan, my eyelids feeling heavy at the mere thought of him. “And he wears glasses before bed.”
Loren gasps. “Tell me they’re of the chunky, plastic variety.”
I shake my head. “The wire kind, the ones that can turn a perfectly nice man into a sexy paleontologist or an aging Scottish laird who isn’t afraid to throw you over his shoulder,” I explain, and shesighs again. “He’s a great kisser, too, very attentive and eager to please.”
She rears back, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Please, go on.”
But I already feel guilty about the implications I’m making, less so for being crude than for only dishing about my physical attraction to Rowan.
“How much did he tell you about himself when you dated?”
“Not a whole lot, but I know those LaFleurs are a different breed,” she replies. “And I mean that in the best way,” she adds quickly.
“Right. So you probably know we haven’t …” But before I can even figure out how I want to finish my sentence, the door to the teacher’s lounge swings open.
Loren’s brother-in-law pauses a few steps into the room and glares at us. “Uh, hi.”
“What the hell are you doing in here, JD?” she asks in a scolding tone.
“I work here,” he retorts sarcastically before turning to me with a more polite expression. “Hey, Claire.”
“Hey, Coach,” I return.
