I glance at him, startled. “What?”
He doesn’t ask again. He grabs my hand, pulling me closer to the musician. Other people are dancing—a few older couples and a little girl with her parents—but that doesn’t alleviate my self-consciousness as Otto spins me and then pulls me into his chest.
I tip my head back so I can see his face. “I’m not a great dancer.”
“You are good at other things.”
I smile. “Like French?”
He grimaces a little. “Like keeping Hanna Bjorn from scoring.”
I was happy when we beat Sweden, but that’s nothing compared to how I feel, hearing Otto compliment my playing. I got subbed in during the second half, and I think there’s a decent chance I performed well enough to make it on the field again.
I played in an Olympic match.
And if I can do that, I can be bold enough to ask, “What about kissing? Am I any good at that?”
His eyes flare with heat, fingers flexing around mine. I thought our kiss was good—life-altering really—but it didn’t progress any further before Beck called him and Otto snuck out of my room. And he hasn’t initiated one since. He’s the only hot, famous athlete I know, but I’ve met plenty of guys. Not a single one has advocated for taking it slow.
“You know you are,” he says huskily.
“Then why haven’t you kissed me?” I practically whisper the question. If we weren’t pressed so close together, I doubt he’d have heard it.
“Because…” His eyes close briefly. “Because I am trying to—I have never done this before.”
“Dance?” I quip. “It was your idea.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I am not sure how to say this.”
“Try.”
“This is different. With women, I usually just…” He clears his throat. “When I kiss you, I know I am not going to be able to stop. And I want to kiss you—kiss you everywhere. But I want this to be more than that too. It is different with you, Claire.”
Maybe it’s a line. Maybe this is his big move—acting like I’m the one who’s different from the many who came before.
But I believe him.
“It’s different for me too,” I say, and a full smile breaks across his face. “And I’d really like you to kiss me, if you can control yourself in public. I don’t know what France’s public indecency laws are?—”
His mouth covers mine, and I forget what else I was planning to say.
My phone buzzes while I’m snuggled up against Otto in the back seat of a taxi, headed back to the Village. I sigh when I see Nolan’s name on the screen, quickly turning it over.
“Your ex?” Otto asks in my ear.
“Yep.”
“Answer it.”
I glance at him—surprised and…hurt. He wants me to talk to my ex? If the roles were reversed, I’d be thrilled to see him ignore the call.
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“You said he keeps calling. Tell him to stop.”
“I have,” I grumble, but I grab my phone and hit the green button.
I did tell Nolan not to contact me before leaving campus. But not since, and he obviously needs a refresher. My conflict-avoiding self hasn’t wanted to deal with it.
