Sensing his doubt, I challenge him. “But hey, if you need his approval—”
“I don’t need anyone’s approval, besides yours.” His features harden with that self-confidence I used to find so obnoxious until I understood how hard he had to fight to earn it.
“You have mine, Slate.”
He moves closer. When his mouth is a hairsbreadth from mine, he murmurs, “I think you may have bewitched me, Mademoiselle de Morel.”
I smile, my heart striking my ribcage with such violence I fear I may become a pile of splintered bones and smoldering flesh.
The tips of his fingers stiffen in my hair, and then he tilts his head and fits his mouth to mine. My breath catches; my pulse, too.
This is happening.
Really happening.
The kiss is gentle at first, as though he’s learning the shape of my mouth, and then his pressure firms, molding my lips to his. I raise the hand he’s not clutching to his shoulder and grip him, worried I might topple right off my chair. In perfect synchronicity, our lips part and our tongues meet.
The kiss turns messy, almost violent. And I’m scared of how much I adore it. How little I care that we are making out in the town’s most popular hangout.
I dig my fingers harder into his shoulder, and he groans, and I think I’ve hit a bruise and start to pull away, but his fingers flex on the back of my head, mashing my mouth to his. I take it he must not be in pain. Still, I touch him more lightly, and then I’m gliding my palm toward his neck. When I graze the edge of his bandage under the cotton turtleneck, he springs away from me.
I slap my palm over my mouth. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
He’s breathing heavily, and so am I.
“Yeah. Just a kneejerk reaction.” He drags my fingers off my mouth and threads them through his. “Who knew librarians could be so wanton?”
His mouth chases mine again, catches it. The second round is slower, sweeter, made even more so by our handholding and his thumbs stroking up and down my knuckles.
A slight squeal makes me jerk away from him and flush down to the roots of my hair. Alma is tottering up the stairs, Bastian right behind her.
I hunt his bespectacled gaze for disapproval but find none.
As both take their seats, he says, “And here I came to Brume because I was worried about Slate. Should’ve known not to be.”
“Now that you’re reassured, you can go home.” Slate releases one of my hands but not the other, and sits back, looking like a satisfied man while I probably resemble a tween with a face rash.
“I could.” Bastian leans forward, forearms overlapping on the table. “But I think I’ll stick around a while longer. Just until school starts. Spike isn’t half as fun and chatty as you guys.”
“Spike?” Alma asks, eyebrows popping up.
Bastian smiles. “Spike is Slate’s pride and joy.”
Slate shakes his head, but a corner of his mouth has flipped up. I vaguely remember him mentioning that name over the phone earlier.
“Is he a dog?” Alma asks.
“A German Shepherd-pug mix, maybe?” I wink at Slate.
Bastian frowns.
“Disregard Mademoiselle de Morel. The wine’s going to her head.”
I pinch his ribs, but then blanch because I probably just hit a bruise. “Sorry.”
He tightens his grip on my hand, his smile reaching his eyes.
“Spike’s a cactus,” Bastian finally announces.
