Dawson lures me into further states of surrender with every enticing caress of his lips on mine. I sink into the moment of bliss and assurance, savoring the motion of each heated push and sensuous pull.
Yes. More of this.
It’s familiar, no doubt, the feel of Dawson’s mouth on mine, but it’s new too. Years have gone by, and there’s more behind this exchange than there’s ever been before.
This—this is the bliss of his kiss.
I can’t help but match the passion he brings, though I’m not sure what message it sends. I’ve missed him too? I’ve thought of him as well? Soon the kisses change from an urgent, pressing state to a slower, savored pace.
And then he pulls back altogether, drawing one final kiss from my lips as he slowly lifts his head. He started it, and it turns out he plans to end it too.
Dawson moves in to press one final kiss to my forehead, his fingers lazily gliding down the side of my neck. “Goodnight, Brinley,” he says under his breath. “I’ll um, drag the cot into the hallway so you can have the room to yourself.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, but he’s already walking toward the hallway.
“I don’t mind,” he assures.
Goodnight, huh?It takes a while for me to get ready for bed. I place the dress in the dry-cleaning bag they provided, slip into a pair of boyish boxers with a lace-trimmed camisole, then hurry downstairs to grab my cats before removing my makeup.
When I pass Dawson in the walkway, the sound of his paced and steady breathing says he’s already asleep. Just like that. My brain will keep me up for three hours at least after that kiss alone, and Dawson’s sleeping like a baby.
As I hit the bottom stair, Cy’s sing-song robot voice buzzes from heaven only knows where and asks me to enter the home’s diary room, which I find labeled like everything else. Once I’m seated before the iPad resting on the table, I’m told that Dawson already answered these same questions before dinner. Lucky him. Less had happened at that point.
I read the first one aloud. “Name something that pleasantly surprised you.” With the taste of Dawson’s kiss on my lips and a hot, telling blush spreading over my cheeks, I realize there’s no contest. “That kiss,” I say.
I’m quick to move on to the next one because it feels uncomfortable to sit in the dreamy headspace with millions of viewers watching me. “Name something thatunpleasantlysurprised you. Easy,” I say with a shrug. “Dawson’s lame questions.”
I’m almost done now. I glance at the final prompt and tip my head back like it just grew a hundred pounds heavier. I sigh loudly, letting my frustration seep out through a raspy groan in my throat. “Geez, I don’t know. A number between one and ten, likelihood of getting back together…”
I want to throw a number out there, any number, but I can’t. I have to give it some thought. I quickly replay our entire day, realizing I’m no closer to knowing if Dawson has really changed than when we broke up.
My shoulders grow heavy now too. How am I supposed to find out when we’re confined to this house together—away from everyday life?
That thought is a brick wall. One that’s been there all along, probably complete with flashing lights and a glowing sign. Yet I didn’t see the obvious until now. Sure, Idohave the Emmy night thing; I shouldn’t discount that. In fact, it’s what made me say yes in the first place. Only now it doesn’t feel like enough.
I shake my head.Spit out a number, Brinley. Just do it and get out of here.
I lift my gaze. “Five,” I blurt. “Five out of ten odds, fifty-fifty.”
I’m on my feet and out the door as fast as my legs can carry me. Five was generous. Five is three points higher than what I think our real chances are—a two.
In the cat den, I bypass the carrier and scoop a cat beneath each arm. Luckily, Moonshine is in passed-out mode—eyes rolled into the back of his head and tongue hanging out one side of his slightly open mouth.
With Muffin playing gently at my feet, Moonshine passed out on my bed, I remove my makeup, and take my time with the skin regimen I’ve stuck to for years. Part of me is sad that Dawson’s stuck sleeping on some crummy cot in the walkway, but another part of me is glad for all the obvious reasons. Plus, he’s less likely to get attacked by Moonshine if we’re not in the same bed. Even less likely seeing that he’s not in the same room.
But since there’s no door between us, I can’t rule it out.
I flip off the final lamp glowing beside the bed. As I climb in, Muffin leaps gracefully onto the bed and circles Moonshine in his limp, lifeless state. I often wonder if Muffin is tempted to retaliate at times like this—get back for all the sneak attacks she’s endured at Moonshine’s paw. Must be why Moonshine sleeps with his eyes open.
Once I’m nestled into the cool sheets and puffy bedding, I close my eyes, sigh deeply, and let my mind drift back to our blessed moment in the closet. I relive every intoxicating sensation from the manner he silently beckoned me with a finger to the way he thrilled me with his masterful kiss.
By the time I wake up, I’ll regret the kiss altogether.
I’ll hate myself for reliving it too, but since it already happened, I may as well glean what I can, and let it seep over me like a blanket of euphoria.
I recall then, just as I let myself sink into a new level of comfort, that there are no cameras in the changing closets or bathrooms. I relive the way Dawson stormed into my closet half undressed, and scrutinize the action.
Did he want the kiss to take place in the closet where no one could see? Maybe. If so, his reason for that could be one of two. Either he wanted us to have privacy, which I appreciate, or he had another reason for not wanting America to know how strong his desire was for me, like he was giving in to some shameful level of passion.
