Page 60 of Hard to Lose

“Haven’t we had enough Q&A for one date?”

She throws her head back and laughs before stepping into me and kissing me absolutely senseless. Hands threaded through my hair, tongue teasing with mine, moan falling from her mouth. The best type of kiss.

I’m staggered how this woman is a mess of contradictions. She said she likes the sex, but not the person, and yet she’s open and free and affectionate like this with me. She claims she’s rigid and planned, and then she kisses me like that without any provocation or apparent care in the world.

How is it so easy, so effortless, watching her do this? Having her do this?

Making me fall for her?

That’s the crazy talking and yet . . . I can’t get her out of my head even when she’s standing before me with those discerning, beautiful eyes and disarming smile.

Is it just because there’s no pressure for more? She’s leaving, and we’re living by my motto: live every day like it’s your last.

“Come on, Gunner, don’t I deserve to know if I’m going to start getting hate mail delivered to my hotel room because I’ve stolen the local heartthrob?”

I snort. “Hardly.”

“I’ll start. I date but don’t get serious. I’m not keen on getting touchy-feely, talking about myself, or about feelings at all really.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, curious. She’s done all of those things with me.

“Because I don’t have time. I have goals to achieve and accomplishments I want to reach by a set time frame, and frankly, relationships are messy and time-consuming and would distract me from doing that.” Her eyes meet mine for the first time and I can tell she’s almost embarrassed by her admission. “I know it sounds cold and callous and selfish—”

“Not at all.”

“But if it’s okay for a man to want things out of life, then why isn’t it okay for a woman? And why the double standard because—”

“Hey?” I press a kiss to her hand.

“What?” She looks at me, startled.

“There is nothing you need to explain or justify about why you’re ambitious. I like that about you.”

“Most men say that at first and then when they want more and I tell them I can’t give it to them, they become raging assholes.”

Who is this woman? At the painting place an hour ago, she was worried I wouldn’t like her if I knew the real her, and now she’s standing before me with candor most people—most women—would struggle to exhibit. I like her even more because of it.

I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re amazing,” I finally say.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because very few people know themselves well enough to know what they want. You do. You know. And you’re unapologetic about wanting it and to me, that’s sexy. That’s attractive. That makes me want to get to know you better so I can hear about and cheer you on as you chase every single one of those goals.”

I mean it with every fiber of my being. Whether or not she’ll want me on the sidelines is another story. She might not want you past these moments. Which I’m beginning to think is not what I want at all. I want more.

Her smile is hesitant, her eyes pooling with tears as she stares at me. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

And before I can even respond, the first drops of rain hit. Big, fat blobs of warm water that make quarter-sized splats on the sidewalk. I look around for cover and see a gazebo a hundred feet away the city has put up for picnics.

“C’mon. This way,” I say, taking a few steps toward it before looking back to make sure she’s coming.

I expect a squeal. The “I don’t want my hair to get messed up” or “my clothes to get ruined,” but find myself stopped dead in my tracks when I see her.

Chase is standing in the rain. Her flowy skirt and tank top are plastered to her body and her hair is drenched, but her face and hands are raised to the sky, and she has the biggest smile on her lips.

I simply stare at her. I think I fall a little harder with each drop that hits her.

“Chase?”