Why am I so bad at flirting?! Not that he’s flirting. He’s…
He’s…
I don’t know what is happening right now.
“Thanks for the ride home,” he tells me again.
“You already said that.”
“Oh.” His voice is so low. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
Too much apologizing already for one evening. How much more can we take?
Wait.
Why is his face so close?
Is it?“Is this my imagination?”
Chapter 17
Easton
“It’s not your imagination,” I mutter, doing the very thing I did not plan to do: lean forward, close the distance between us—and press my lips to hers.
For a moment, everything freezes—including Harper.
She hesitates but doesn’t pull back.
Her lips are warm.
Soft.
And before I can think twice, I kiss her again and then she’s kissing me back, in the driveway of my house.
The garage coach lights flicker on. If my parents noticed an unfamiliar car parked outside, they haven’t come to investigate—probably because they’re in the living room watching TV.
The kiss is awkward at first—when our noses bump, Harper lets out a nervous little laugh against my open mouth. And when she leans farther toward me, she accidentally hits the gear shift with her knee.
But goddamn, her mouth tastes good…
Really good. Like chocolate candy and salty popcorn.
I try not to knock over the popcorn bucket in my enthusiasm, but it’s collateral damage when I twist to move my other hand to the back of her neck. Thread my fingers through her hair; it feels like silk and I can’t remember a single time I’ve had my hands in a girl’s hair…
If this is what it feels like, I want more.
I pull her closer.
Harper tilts her head, angling to get closer—but the seat belt tightens, yanking her back.
My hands move to unbuckle it: hers.
Then mine.
Unbound, we crush our mouths together, my tongue seeking hers—requesting permission—and she parts her lips in response.
