Page 27

Gage hasn’t moved. One broad shoulder rests against the brick beside the shop entrance, and a smaller paper bag dangles from his other hand.

“What’s that?”

“Evidence of poor impulse control.”

“You already bought seven cookbooks.”

His mouth twitches as he holds out the bag. “This one isn’t mine.”

I take it like it might be made of glass. “Gage.”

“Open it.”

The tissue paper crackles beneath my fingers. The dark walnut base greets me, and I freeze. “No fucking way. OhmyGodohmyGod—oh my Gawwwd!”

“I’ll take that as a good sign.”

I lift the music box out as carefully as if it might vanish if I move too quickly. The little horses wait beneath the glass, rhinestones twinkling. “You bought it.”

He taps the side of his nose. “Excellent observational skills.”

“It was two hundred dollars.”

“Well aware. I was present for the transaction.”

“Gage.” I run my thumb along the edge. “Why?”

He shrugs, a palm out like he genuinely doesn’t understand the question. “Because you loved it.”

Goosebumps curl along the back of my neck. He says it so simply. No speech. No expectation. Just because I loved it.

“You barely know me.” I hold the treasure closer.

“I know what your face looked like before you saw the price.”

Fuck. Tears sting my eyes, and they fall onto the tiny horses. He noticed. Not just me wanting it. He understood the exact moment wanting it became math. Gas. Bills. Mom. Everything else, which always stands in line ahead of me.

Gage studies me with that absurdly observant gaze. “Is this the part where you tell me I shouldn’t have bought it and you can’t accept it?”

I shake my head. “No.”

His eyebrows rise. I nestle the music box back into the tissue paper, then close the distance between us. “This is the part where I kiss you.”

“Okay. Wait. What?”

Too late. I grab the front of his shirt and pull. He’s tall and broad enough, this should accomplish absolutely nothing, but his head dips as I rise onto my toes, and my mouth meets his.

For half a second, Gage does nothing. That half second is long enough for panic to whisper that I’ve completely misread this. Then he catches my waist. Hard.

A sound rumbles low in his chest, and suddenly I’m the one being moved. My back meets the brick—firm but not painful—and his mouth comes back to mine with enough force to drive all thoughts from my skull. I find his hair, catching the messy knot at the back with one hand and his shirt with the other.

Gage kisses like he’s decided nothing else on this street deserves his attention. His beard scrapes deliciously against my skin. He tastes like coffee, cinnamon, and sin. His tongue brushes mine, and heat shoots through me so hard, my knees actually weaken. Apparently my body has chosen death by pastry chef. Fantastic.

His hand slides down—over my hip, along my thigh, behind my knee. He draws my leg up around his hip and steps closer until he’s pressed between my thighs.

“Gage,” I gasp between kisses, my core pulsing a warm heartbeat.

His mouth moves to the corner of mine. “Mm?”