This was too much. Because while he had been joking around earlier, this — this softness, this gentle earnestness — wasn't pretend.
He cared. He cared about her, cared about being here and he cared about us.
“Oh!” Gran gasped suddenly. “I forgot the most important part! The conga line!”
“The conga li— no!” I held up both hands. “Absolutely goddamn not.”
But Kai had already set down the makeshift casket, grabbed my hips and steered me forward like a human forklift. “C’mon,” he breathed into the back of my hair, but I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s a mock funeral. Live a little.”
His hands were big and warm on me and I could feel his breath brushing my skin.
Tingles shot all the way down my spine, setting my whole body on fire as he brushed the softest kiss on the side of my neck.
This wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t sensible, either. This was precisely why I avoided getting close to people. Most people left me behind eventually, and I’d stopped having expectations in this regard.
No expectations, no disappointments.
Gran joined us, and we formed a three-person conga line around the living room. She swung her boa andshouted, “CELEBRATE MY MORTALITY!” at the top of her lungs.
Kai couldn’t keep it together any longer, breaking out into a fit of laughter. It was a deep, warm, full-body laugh I could feel in my ribs as he hunched over and rested his forehead on my shoulder.
He fit here, in my house, with my ridiculous family, like he’d always belonged and that was what scared me. While Gran was yelling about her impending imaginary death, I was dealing with something far more real.
I was in trouble.
Serious, heart-squeezing, stomach-dropping trouble.
I’d been trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. Trying to pretend he wasn’t becoming part of my daily life, to pretend he wasn’t slipping under my skin and pretend he wasn’t looking at me as if I were worth staying for.
But there he was, wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat and carrying my grandmother’s fake coffin, dancing as if he’d never been happier.
He was looking at me as if this were how it was supposed to be, as if he actually cared about me.
And when the horrifying, terrifying truth slammed into me, I realized the feeling was mutual.
I was falling for him, and not just the idea of him. Not for his body, his jokes or the chaotic brand of joy he brought to my life.
Him.
The gentle giant who remembered Gran’s favorite cookies.
Who filled my water bottle without being asked.
Who wasn’t too afraid to ask me for help, to show his vulnerability.
Who listened — actually listened — when I talked about losing my fight last year.
Who fixed the squeaky hinge on our hallway door and pretended he didn’t.
Who didn’t give a shit when I was being a prickly bitch and just smiled until I got over myself.
Who humored Gran and went along with all her ridiculous ideas.
It felt like I’d been sucker-punched and slammed down on the mat simultaneously. There was no air left in my lungs; no air was coming in to fill them.
There was no air.
This wasn’t the plan.
