“I don’t want to be kissed by someone who doesn’t want to kiss me, Roman. I was simply pointing out that your efforts to avoid it are becoming?—”
“Stella,” I growl. “It’s a simple question. Do you want me to kiss you?”
Her head tilts up, more loose strands sweeping across her cheeks. Her eyes lock on mine while her back hits the door of the car. I lean in a little closer, resting my palm on the passenger window.
“Stella?” I whisper, inching closer, still waiting for an answer.
“I wouldn’t hate it,” she says, her cheeks pink. One of her hands flattens on my chest.
She wouldn’t hate it.
And seeing how I’ve been pulling off miracles keeping away from her, it’s all the confirmation I need.
Cradling her face in my hands, I lean until the warmth of her body is palpable next to mine. Her green eyes sparkle like Tesoro Lake in the morning. “Do you have any idea how difficult you arenotto kiss?”
Her hand on my chest snakes around to the back of my head, and I’m pretty sure she lifts up on her toes.
“Stella,” I whisper. “Silly Stella.” And finally, I give up the control I’ve been forcing onto myself and press my lips to hers. Soft and warm, tender yet present—like watching the sunrise. Stella’s lips move with mine, telling me she’s thought about this too. She hugs herself against me, and every inch of my body is completely aware of hers and where she touches. Heat spreads over my limbs, as if moving from her to me andback again. I trail my fingers down the soft skin of her cheek and over her neck, relishing in each goosebump I feel rise on her skin.
Reluctantly, I break free, coming up for air, and press my head to hers.
“So, you weren’t avoiding this, then?” she says.
I scrub a hand down my face before wrapping it around the small of her back. With her body against mine, I tug her out of the way of the car. Then, opening her passenger door, I help her back inside. The woman is a popsicle. She’s not even in her coat.
“I’ve been trying to avoid Brice coming back to haunt me. Do you have any idea how much trouble I’m in right now?” I don’t wait for an answer. I shut her door, cross the car, and climb into the driver’s seat.
This woman—who is very much my wife—presses her lips together, her eyes downcast and guilty. “That might be my fault.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I sort of had this little crush on you in high school. Brice found out about it and threatened my life.” She wrinkles her nose.
“Huh,” I say, my arm stretched out to her headrest. “That explains a few things. No wonder he got so mad at me when I noticed you.”
“I always thought Brice was just so horrified by me and my obvious uncoolness. The thought of me thinking of you—popular, athletic, Roman—made him annoyed with me.”
“I don’t think that was it. I think he was protective of you. It’s possible today, if my best friend were here”—my throat tightens—“he’d bejust fine with this.”
Her dark lashes flutter, and she peers over at me. “You think?”
And then I bare my soul to Stella Everly with two little words: “I hope.”
She blinks, licks her lips, and peers down at the console between us.
“Your brother loved you very much, Stella,” I say. “It was never that he thought you weren’t good enough for me. It was quite the opposite.”
Her brows knit. “I never realized.”
“I can see that.”
“And,” she adds, “I’ve been so mad at him, it never occurred to me.”
“You’ve been mad at him?” Believe me, I have become a professional in anger. I’m sort of mad at everyone, at everything, but never Brice.
“Well, yeah,” she says, as if it should be obvious. “He left me. I mean, I get going to college. But Brice left me for good. He left me to deal with our parents, to grow up alone. He left me in his great big shadow, trying to live up to him.”
“You took it out on Brice,” I say.
