Instinctively, I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is close enough to overhear us. Luckily, right at that moment, the high school marching band launches into a surprisingly good rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”
But before I can lower my voice to let him down easy, Nate clears his throat.
“Like I said last night, I’m not looking for anything serious,” he says. “Besides, we’re pretty different people—I don’t think we’d be a good fit.”
I press my lips together and blink away the sting. Even though I was going to say exactly the same thing, it still feels like a rejection coming from him. Maybe I’m just annoyed that he got to say it first.
“Of course,” I say, waving him off. “I’m not looking for that either. With you, I mean.” I force a little laugh. “I’m heading back to LA on the fourteenth anyway. Last night was just a stupid drunk thing.”
“Okay, good,” Nate says after a beat. “Glad we’re on the same page. Plus, your family’s being nice enough to host me—I wouldn’t want to make things weird.”
“Got it,” I say, eyes trained on the parade, where a local Boy Scout troop is tossing bubblegum. “I agree.”
“I mean, I’m not saying I didn’t like it,” Nate insists. “I did. It was great. Amazing. I mean, kind of a surprise since you’re such a smoke show.”
“Thank y—Wait—what?” I stop scanning the crowd and look back at Nate. “Why is that a surprise?”
He shrugs. “Attractive women are usually meh kissers.”
“They are?”
Nate nods. “It’s like how good-looking guys aren’t funny.”
You’re funny, I think.And hot.
“Because they’ve never had to be, you know?” Nate continues. At the bewildered look on my face, he adds, “I’m trying to pay you acompliment, Nicole. It’s impressive that you were able to overcome the limitations of your birth.”
A root beer Dum-Dum skitters toward us, tossed from one of the floats. “The limitations of my birth being… that I’m a ‘smoke show.’”
“Exactly.” Nate reaches for the lollipop. He offers it to me, and I shake my head. He unwraps it and pops into his mouth. “You’re making incredible strides for the smoke show population. Opening a lot of doors.”
Despite the awkwardness of this whole situation, I laugh.
He looks back toward the parade, sucking thoughtfully on the lollipop. After a moment he says, “I just mean you’re beautiful and a great kisser.” His voice is sincere now, and I can’t suppress the shiver of delight that runs through me.
“Guess you can’t judge a book by its cover,” I say with a grin. Which is true. There’s nothing about Nate’s affable slacker vibe that signals “technically adept kisser.” And yet…“I think you are also, you know, attractive, and, um, a great kisser.”
“Thank you.” He crunches through the last bit of candy and tosses the stick into a plastic bag. It is kind of unreal to me that this guy is the greatest makeout I’ve had in years. Maybe the greatest makeout of my wholelife. But I’m probably just remembering it through the haze of tequila. The edges of the memory blurred by liquor and pent-up sexual frustration. Even so, I can’t stop the thought that if I leaned over now and pressed my lips to his, I’d still be able to taste sugar and sarsaparilla.
Beside me, Nate has stilled, and his eyes are locked on my mouth. I realize I’ve tipped toward him, my lips slightly parted.
He’s still watching me, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And then—BOOM. The sound of antique gunfire from the Revolutionary War reenactors ricochets off the brick buildings around the square. Nate’s hand flies to his chest; mine to my mouth.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, heart hammering.
He blinks, dazed, then grins. “Was that… the universe taking aim at us?”
“Feels personal,” I say, my voice half a laugh, half a breathless whisper.
He laughs, but the air between us still feels charged, the ghost of last night’s kiss lingering between us like a live wire. I let my gaze linger on his face for a minute, getting lost in the smattering of freckles dusting his cheeks, the flecks of gray in his blue eyes.
“Nikki Bennet?”
Immediately I feel myself blushing as I whip my head around. It’s a girl I don’t recognize, about twelve or thirteen years old, wearing a denim skirt and red tank. Her cell phone is clutched in her hand, and I can’t tell if she’s already recording.
Shit shit shit.It takes me a split second to recalibrate from the moment with Nate to my panic—did anyone see us?—to what my mother lovingly calls “on mode.”
