Page 69 of Fractured Ice

"I'm serious."

"I know. Next."

I move a dollar. A guy tries to step up. Ethan gives him a look, and he suddenly finds the booth next to us more interesting. I lean in, and this time his hand comes up to the edge of the table and he tips forward slightly, not touching me, just closer. The kiss is slower than the last one and I'm aware of the exact temperature of his mouth. I pull back and I'm very determinedly not thinking about that.

"You're impossible to deal with," I say.

"Historically accurate." His eyes haven't moved from my face. "Next."

"I don't even like you."

"I know." He says it easily, without any injury in it. "Next."

I move another dollar. I lean in, and this time I'm not sure exactly how it happens but the kiss goes longer than I intended, long enough that I'm aware of my own pulse in my throat, long enough that when I pull back I need a second before I say anything.

"I don't like your hair," I say.

"I'll dye it."

"I don't like your face."

"I'll find someone to rearrange it."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it, short and real, and Ethan's expression does something warm and immediate, like my laughing is the thing he was working toward all along.

"Next," he says.

I move a dollar. I lean in.

This kiss doesn't end quickly.

His mouth is warm and unhurried and he doesn't push it, doesn't try to take more than what's being given, just stays there. I'm the one who presses in a little closer, and I feel him respond to it, a slight deepening. When I finally pull back I'm not entirely sure how long that was and my brain has gone somewhere slightly unreliable.

"You're—" I start.

"Next," he says, and his voice is lower than it was.

I move a dollar. I lean in.

His hand comes up and cups my jaw, gently, just holding, and the kiss is nothing like the ones at the beginning of this pile. This one has weight to it. His thumb traces the edge of my cheekbone and I go completely still and let him. The kiss goes slow and deep and when it ends I stay close for a second before I remember to move back.

“Me next!” a teenage boy says, looking eager.

“Keep walking,” Ethan says, a little breathless, as the boy casts a little glare and walks off.

I look at the pile. The stacks have become uneven and I've lost track of which dollar belongs where.

"You're doing this on purpose," I say.

"Doing what?"

"This. All of this. You're doing this on purpose."

"The kissing booth was your arrangement." He raises an eyebrow. "I'm just a patron."

"You're a menace."

"Next," he says.