Page 62 of The Backup Plan

My hands find her waist to steady us.

Our bodies are flush against each other’s, the fingers of one of our hands is still linked. Her body is warm, familiar in a way that surprises me, making every part of me pay attention.

She looks up at me, lips parted slightly and breath uneven.

Christ.

The crowd presses closer, and my free hand moves to her back. The fingers of her free hand curl lightly into the front of my shirt.

For a split second the world narrows, and my brain shuts off.

My body wants.

Fuck, all of me wants.

Her lips are right there. Soft. Pink. Tempting.

The music swells, bass vibrating the through the pavement and straight up my legs. Lights flicker overhead, painting her face in color—gold, then blue, then something darker. Someone laughs nearby. Another pushes me tighter against her. We sway—more like dancing—slowly.

I want to kiss her.

The thought hits hard and unwelcome. I lean in and her breath feathers over my mouth. I can feel the heat of her. The hum under her skin that matches the music pounding around us.

This was not supposed to happen. To feel like this.

This was supposed to be tacos and laughter and a stupid cactus piñata.

Not this.

I pull back first, barely enough to break whatever hold she has on me. Her eyes flicker—confusion, despair, relief. Maybe a bit of all three.

“Hey.” I swallow. “You good?”

She nods. “Yeah. Just . . . crowded.”

With perfect timing the music breaks, and so does the crowd as they move on to the next block to play.

I’m left standing in a steadily emptying street, fingers slowly unlinking from my doctor’s. My friend’s.

The woman I still want to kiss.

She’s my doctor. My neighbor. She’s the one line I can’t afford to blur.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say.

She nods without speaking, like we both know we were about to make a huge mistake but still wanted to.

At least I did anyway.

I guide her through the bodies, my hand never leaving her back until the music and people fade behind us. The lights grow dimmer. The street clears.

Only then do I let go.

The walk to the truck is quiet but not awkward.

When she climbs into the passenger seat, she chuckles at the heap of stuff piled in the back seat that we’ve accumulated this afternoon.

Neither of us speaks on the drive back to the apartment complex. I’d like to say it’s because we’re both tired from the long day, but it might be more than that. It might be questioning what happened in the street.