April’s eyes widen slightly and she sputters. “Practice kissing?”
I search for the right words. “So we’re not fumbling around in front of the cameras.”
She nods slowly, but her throat bobs on a hard swallow. “That makes sense.”
Except there’s nothing sensible about the way my heart is hammering against my ribs at the thought of kissing my best friend ... again. My entire body is still shivering and burning from the kiss cam kiss.
“Badaszek says practice makes champions.” I instantly regret bringing up my gruff coach.
“He would know,” she chirps as if trying to convince herself of something.
I stand up from the table, and April does too, looking uncertain. But we’re in my loft, surrounded by dogs and the evidence of our dinner—just a normal evening with April … as I prepare to show my best friend what it would be like if we were really together.
“Okay,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “So if we weren’t friends. If we were actually dating and this were real ...”
Her eyes flit to mine and her gaze dips to my lips—or maybe she’s just sleepy from the heavy meal. “Yes?”
I step closer, but don’t touch her yet. Just close enough that I can see her chest rising and falling a little faster than normal.
“First, I’d probably do this.” I reach out slowly—giving her time to pull away—and tuck a curl behind her ear. My fingers linger for just a second against her cheek. “Little touches. Nothing big. Just ... contact.”
Her breath hitches. “Okay.”
“Then maybe this.” My hand slides to her shoulder, mythumb tracing her collarbone through her shirt. “Casual. Comfortable. Like I can’t help touching you.”
“Right. Casual.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“And I’d probably …” I let my hand drift down her arm until I find her hand. Our fingers lace together, and electricity shoots up my arm. “I’d hold your hand. Like this.”
“This seems ... very detailed.”
“We want to avoid awkwardness.”
“Of course.”
She swallows again, a faint smile on her lips. I’m stirred up, from head to toe and ignore my vibrating phone along with the doubts that careen into each other.
I say, “Touch me.”
“What?”
“So we’re comfortable in public.”
“We’ve touched loads of times.” She pokes my arm once, twice.
It cannot be helped, I flex.
Her throat bobs and her voice is shaky when she says, “See? I just touched you.”
I chuckle. “We’ve never touched like boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Hmm,” she says as if considering this.
“We can’t just act buddy-buddy. No one will buy it.”
“Seems like you’ve done this before.”
“Fake date? Not like this.” But I’ve thought aboutthisa hundred times—what it would be like to cross the boundary line, emerge from Friend Tundra. To be with April.
