“Mine sure did,” he mutters with a hand in his hair.
“You’re early.” I shift from side to side. “For our date.”
His head lifts, no more strands of dark hair spilling across his cheek. “Date?”
“Ice skating,” I say. “It’s a tradition. Central Park. I go every year.”
He glances toward the rolling calendar. “It’s not on here,” he notes as if that’s a loophole he’ll exploit.
“It’s not?” I storm that way, my eyes glued to the empty box. “That’s not possible. It’s a tradition. I go every year. The same Tuesday. Because there’s not much of a crowd yet. I’ve watched tourist patterns for the rink, the tree. I even know how many pretzels the guy on the corner sells that day. How could I forget? What’s wrong with me?”
“Hey,” Rhys murmurs, his voice slicing through my spiral like a hot knife. “You’ve been sick. Give yourself a break.”
I blink up at him. “And you’ve been kissing me.”
His eyes go soft. “Good kissing has been known to drown out everything around you.”
No kidding.
“It’s okay. We can fix this.” Getting behind me and pressing against my back, firm and sure, he takes one of the markers and brings it up to the board.
I squeak and bite my fingers because he’s using the wrong color.
“What?” he asks with gentle eyes.
‘Let the man choose a color. It’s his date, too,’Fern suggests.
She’s right. Even if it wasn’t, it’s just a color. “Nothing. I like that marker. Purple.”
“It is my favorite color,” he says with a sexy brow waggle.
‘It’s the color of bruises,’Basil quips.
I snort. “So what?”
“Hmmm?” Rhys says, waving the marker.
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
“Permission to write on the whiteboard, wow. I’mmoving up in Fallon World.” He chuckles and writes inSkatingwith his tidy, decisive hand.
Fallon World. I like that. Next, I’m eyeing my plants, drunk with power.
“Now it’s official.” Rhys smiles.
My heart swells so large, it may crack my ribs. I spin around and fling my arms around him. “Because we’re official.”
“We are, aren’t we?” Rhys folds me into his arms. They feel like warm bands of steel wrapped around my spine.
We tilt back just enough to see each other. He looks at my mouth, and I look at his.
“Couples are supposed to kiss when they first see each other,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges.
“I like that tradition, too.” I snuggle closer to him.
“I’ll add it to the rules on the whiteboard when I’m done getting my fill of your mouth,” he growls, lowering his lips to meet mine.
We kiss, and it’s soft and sweet. The kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything of me. But promises a lot of heat in my future.
