He leaned in slowly, giving me time to meet him halfway. I did. The kiss was soft at first, cold air between us, his hands warm at my waist, my fingers curling in the front of his jacket. Then his mouth moved a little deeper, and the wall behind me felt less like brick and more like a necessary support structure.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“I liked hearing your team name over the mic,” he said.
I laughed softly. “No Further Questions?”
“No.” His thumb moved over my hip. “Your name. Aura. When the host checked the score sheet and said it while you were standing there with that ridiculous tiara.”
My breath caught.
He noticed. His hands steadied at my waist, no pressure, no pushing, just there.
“It was loud,” I said.
“I know.”
“Weird loud.”
“Bad weird?”
I thought about the room clapping, about the host grinning, about strangers cheering because I had won something silly and bright and harmless. I thought about my name being attached to a score, a joke, a crown, Easton’s smile.
“Good weird,” I said.
His face softened.
I swallowed. “I liked hearing it loud for something stupid.”
“I liked hearing it loud for something good.”
There it was, except I hated that phrase, so it wasn’t that. It was worse. It was the thing underneath my ribs turning warm and fragile, the thing I usually covered in sarcasm because tenderness was a slippery floor and I had terrible shoes.
So I said, “You are very dangerous near neon.”
He smiled. “I’ll add it to my scouting report.”
“We need a ride.”
“My truck is dead.”
“And I am tipsy enough that walking home in heels is how Dateline episodes start.”
He pulled out his phone. “Uber?”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
“Too soon?” he asked.
“Debra has custody trauma with Pickle tonight. We respect it.”
He glanced at his screen. “Cade?”
My smile started before I could stop it.
Easton saw it and narrowed his eyes. “What?”
