I chuckle nervously. “I’m not sure of that myself.”
He pulls me closer and we lie down, facing each other, hands clasped between us. I can feel his heart racing against my st. I wonder if he can feel mine.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, “of what I feel when I’m around you. I’m scared of what I want from you, and I don’t know how to ask for it.” I’m also scared that if I do, it might be terrible or not live up to my expectations, but I don’t say this, because I’m afraid it will hurt his feelings.
He kisses my forehead. “Know what I’m scared of?”
“What?”
“?at I like you way too much, and I’m afraid once you get to know me, you’re going to realize that you can do lots better, and you’re going to break my heart and leave me for someone classier.”
I breathe him in deeply. “When I rst came to town, there was someone else. Not Patrick,” I say, as if either of us needs that reminder.
“Your so-called other plans?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess you could say he’s classy, I don’t know. But just when you think you understand someone, it turns out that you didn’t really know them at all. Or maybe the real problem was that you didn’t understand something about yourself.”
“I don’t follow.”
I blow out a long breath. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that before I moved out here, I didn’t know I liked churros and moon muffins and Hawaiian poke and Jollof rice, and I didn’t know I would fall for you. But I did. And who wants classy when you can eat posole out of a food truck on the beach? I had no idea what I was missing.”
He slowly traces a wavy tendril near my temple with one
nger. “You’ve fallen for me, huh?”
“Maybe.” I hold up my ngers and measure a small amount. “?is much.”
“?at’s it? Guess I’m going to have to try harder, then,” he says in a low voice against my lips, almost kissing me, but not quite. ?en again. Little almost-kisses. Teasing me.
My breath quickens.
“Let’s take a quick quiz, why don’t we?” he murmurs. “If I put my hand here—”
His ngers slide under my shirt over my belly. It’s delicious … for all of two seconds. ?en he’s too close to the off-limits area of my scar. And—no! He’s actually touching my scar. No way am I stopping this to explain that. I just … can’t. No.
He feels me tense up and immediately withdraws. “Hey. I—”
“No, no, no,” I quickly whisper. “It’s not you. It’s something else. Don’t take it personally, I … just, um.” I move his hand to the middle of my bare thigh, under my skirt. Talk about dangerous waters.
“Bailey,” he says. A warning.
“Quiz me,” I challenge.
He mumbles a lthy little curse, but his hand begins to climb upward, oh-so-slowly. “Okay, Rydell. If you’re locked in a museum all night with a guy you’re falling for, and he’s cool enough to show you the Cave’s dirtiest secret—God, your skin is so soft.”
“Mmphrm?” I murmur, moving around to give him better access.
“Oh,” he murmurs back cheerfully.
Hand rmly gripping my upper thigh, he kisses me, and I kiss him back, and it’s desperate and wonderful.
“Okay,” he says, sounding drugged. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, here.” Much to my delight, his hand continues its roaming ascent. Only, there’s not much farther it can go. He hesitates, chuckling to himself, and switches legs, repeating the same pattern on the other thigh.
?en stops.
I whimper. I’m genuinely frustrated.
Until he shifts a little, and I feel him pressed against my hip. No mistaking that.
