I shouldn’t. IknowI shouldn’t.
But I’ve wanted to kiss this girl for more than half my life, and I’m only human. So I let myself have it for just a second.
My hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head as I deepen the kiss, angling my mouth over hers. She makes a soft, needy sound that goes straight to my spine, and I have to bite back a groan. She tastes like a second chance, and I force myself to keep it slow. Gentle, no heat. Just the soft press and pull of my lips on hers. Any more than that and I won’t be able to stop.
After a few dazed heartbeats, I start to pull back. Jenna follows me, chasing my mouth with hers, then finally lets me go, softly panting with a lazy, satisfied smile on her face.
“Who knew Oliver Jacobson could kiss like that?” she mumbles, her words slurred with sleep.
I’m still frozen in place when she rolls onto her side, curling up with the blanket, already half asleep again.
I exhale slowly, forcing air back into my lungs. “Goodnight, Princess.”
I turn off the lamp and head out, pausing once in the doorway to look back at her silhouetted form.
As I pull the door quietly closed behind me, one thought rings clear and bright in my head:I am absolutely, completely screwed. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t mind at all.
3
JENNA
I’m dead.
Well, not physically dead—though my skull does feel like it’s trying to secede from my body—but spiritually dead. Emotionally dead. And dignity-wise? I’ve flatlined. Toast. Over and out. Someone please locate my next of kin and inform them Jenna Howard has died of embarrassment sometime around midnight.
I groan into my pillow and scrunch my eyes shut against the sunlight stabbing through my blinds.
Oh God. I drank. I cried. And I… I kissed… Wait… did I call him a hot chocolate daddy?
My stomach lurches. Memories flicker like a broken neon sign.
His mouth, warm on mine. His hand sliding into my hair. His breath hitching ever so slightly.
“Ohhhhh nooo,” I whine into my comforter.
If I were capable of movement, I’d roll off the bed and into a grave. Instead, I croak into the cottony fluff, “What have I done?”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it blindly, hoping it’s a notification from Jesus saying He forgives me for whatever chaos I caused last night.
Nope, not Jesus. Just Paige.
PAIGE:
Rise and shine, my sweet hungover gremlin! Did Daddy Oliver tuck you in okay?
I flingthe phone across the bed.
Nope. Not today. Not mentally stable enough.
I sit up slowly, being extra careful. Because if my head makes another sudden movement, I’ll need a priest and an exorcism. When my eyes finally adjust to the light seeping into my room, I notice the glass of water beside my bed along with two pills and a neatly-folded note.
Take the meds and drink this when you wake up. Then text Paige and let her know you’re alive.
—O
His handwriting isclean and confident. Masculine with a hint of artistic flair.Ugh, of course his handwriting is sexy.
I gulp down the water and pain relievers, then swing my legs out of bed. The memory of his arms around me flashes through my mind—strong and warm, lifting me like I weighed nothing. I grab my phone again and stare at the message from Paige, debating how to respond.
