For a second, neither of us moved. Then he cleared his throat. “Schedule says lobby at eight. Dinner with the committee that’s trying to bring a team back to Quebec City.”
I nodded, and the silence stretched.
“You okay?” he asked. “You were quiet in the car.”
“Yeah. You?”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
He huffed. “Stuff.”
“That’s specific.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t quite manage a smile. “You’re still a pain in the ass, Rossi.”
I should’ve fired back. Instead, I said, “Were you thinking about me this week?”
He went still. “What?”
“I don’t?—”
“You keep looking at me like you’re trying to figure something out.” His voice was rough. “And I’m losing my mind trying not to say the wrong thing.”
“Then say something right.”
He took a step toward me. “I don’t know what we’re doing anymore. We fight, we joke, we text stupid shit. I tell myself to step back. Then you show up, and I forget every reason I had for keeping my distance.”
“Pack—”
“Don’t.” He looked away. “If you tell me I’m imagining this…”
I moved closer. “Say what you mean.”
He hesitated, then met my eyes. “You sure you want me to?”
“Yes.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. His throat worked like he was trying to get the words out, but nothing came.
Finally, I whispered, “Say it.”
His breath caught. I closed the distance between us and cupped his face.
“Fuck,” he whispered as his hand found the back of my neck.
The first brush of our lips was barely a kiss. Contact, maybe. Heat sizzled up my spine. I leaned in again, and this time, the kiss was real. We wrapped our arms around each other and held on for dear life.
When we finally separated, he leaned his forehead against mine while we both panted.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
“Yeah.” My voice caught. “That was?—”
“Amazing.”
“Yeah,” I repeated because I couldn’t think of anything else that didn’t sound stupid. We were still holding each other.
