“Ready to head to dinner?”
“Yes! I am famished.” Normally we don’t have to make reservations at Adriatic Kitchen, but the antique fair has brought in a lot of tourists. I can practically taste their marsala ravioli.
The cobblestones are uneven here where the historical district meets Main Street. My heel catches in a gap between stones and I stumble forward. Hunter’s good arm wraps around my waist, catching me before I face-plant into the brick sidewalk.
“Got you.”
We’re suddenly very close. His hand is warm and solid against my ribs, my palms flat against his chest. I can feel his heart beating under my fingers, steady and strong. When I look up, his face is inches from mine, and whatever I see in his eyes makes my own heart slam against my ribs.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Anytime.” His voice is rougher than it was a second ago.
Neither of us moves.
The noise of the art walk fades into background static. There’s only the warmth of his hand, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he’s been searching for, the pull low in my stomach that’s been there since St. Sebastian.
“Claire.” My name comes out quiet. Almost careful.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to kiss you now unless you tell me not to.”
I should tell him not to. We’re in public on Main Street where half the town can see us. This is only date one of three. I don’t do public displays of anything.
“Okay,” I hear myself whisper.
His mouth curves just slightly before he leans down. But instead of kissing me, he takes my hand and pulls me into the shadowed alcove between the Battered Bliss Emporium and the gallery next door.
The brick wall is cool against my back. Hunter steps in close, boxing me in without actually touching me, and the anticipation of it makes my breathing go shallow.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi yourself.”
His good hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing along my jaw. He’s taking his time, watching my eyes like he’s memorizing something, and the deliberateness of it makes me want to grab his shirt and pull him down myself.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the diner.”
“Since this morning?”
“Since St. Sebastian.” His thumb brushes across my bottom lip. “Since the zip tie, if I’m being honest.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s nothing like the almost-kiss on the beach. This is thorough and claiming and so complete that every carefully planned goal I’ve ever had just evaporates. His mouth is warm and sure, and when I make a sound against his lips, he deepens the kiss until I forget where we are entirely.
My hands find his shirt, fisting in the fabric, and he presses closer. The brick wall digs into my shoulder blades but I don’t care because Hunter Ashe is kissing me like I’m the only thing that matters and my entire nervous system is on board with this plan.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his hand still cupping my face.
“Hiking,” he says, his voice rough. “Tomorrow.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement delivered with the kind of certainty that should irritate me but instead makes everything below my waist clench.
“Hunter...”
“My place.” His thumb traces my jaw again. “We’re having our second date whether you like it or not.”
