"This is a slippery slope," she said.
"I'm aware."
"Books today, jewelry tomorrow, a sports car next week?—"
"I wasn't planning on a sports car."
"That's what they all say."
But she was clutching the bag to her chest, and I could see—past the protest, past the deflection—that she was touched.
We resumed walking. Her arm brushed mine. Neither of us moved away.
We passed a café, the same one where we'd gotten hot chocolate earlier. Through the window, I could see couples at small tables, hands intertwined, heads bent close.
Willow had hot chocolate residue on her lip. A smear she'd missed, just visible at the corner of her mouth.
I should have told her. Should have pointed it out and let her wipe it away herself.
Instead, I reached out. Brushed my thumb across the corner of her mouth.
She went still.
My hand lingered. Her skin was warm beneath myfingertips. Her eyes—those hazel eyes that missed nothing and forgave everything—held mine.
No audience. No one watching. No reason to perform.
And I wanted to kiss her more than I'd wanted anything in years. Wanted to close the distance between us and taste the chocolate on her lips and forget every rule we'd established. Every warning Graham had given me. Every rational thought in my head.
She was leaning in. Or I was. Or we both were.
A group of teenagers burst out of the café, loud and laughing, shouldering past us with cheerful obliviousness. We stepped apart. The moment shattered.
"We should head back," Willow said. Her voice sounded strange. Breathless.
"Yeah." Mine wasn't much better. "Long drive."
We walked to the car in silence.
She fell asleep twenty minutes into the drive.
Her head rested against the window, breath fogging the glass in slow, rhythmic patches. The setting sun caught her hair, turned it to amber and bronze.
I kept my eyes on the road. Mostly.
For a heartbeat I was mesmerized by how stunningshe was. In sleep, she lost that guarded expression like she was waiting for the next shoe to drop. I wanted access to the nooks and crannies that made Willow who she was. The hurts, the private joys—whatever comprised the landscape that was Willow Monroe.
I shouldn’t care about any of that. If anything, I should be annoyed that I lost an entire day for nothing because like Willow pointed out, Janetta was nowhere to be seen.
But I wasn’t annoyed. I was happy.
The music played low—her pop playlist, which I'd left on. I was getting used to it, God help me. Starting to anticipate which song came next. Starting to associate these ridiculous melodies with her.
This was a problem.
She was a problem.
Not her—she was remarkable. Sharp and funny and frustratingly honest in ways that made me want to be honest too. The problem was what she was doing to me. The way I checked my phone for her texts. The way I'd arranged my entire day around this trip. The way I couldn't stop thinking about the almost-kiss that had happened and the real kiss that hadn't.
