by Sarah Smith
I slide my hand through his curls. His hair is thicker than I thought it would be. I moan in delighted surprise. These white-blond ringlets are the perfect spot for my fingers. Better than gloves, better than the steering wheel of my car, better than the warm manicure bath at my favorite nail salon. I curl them against his scalp and pull. The groan he lets out is like crack to my eager ears. I let go, then pull once more. Again he groans. My eyes are rolling back behind my eyelids. If from this moment on, my life consisted of nothing but kissing Tate and touching his curls, I would be satisfied.
His hands cup my face in such a surprisingly affectionate way that I whimper. He makes an “mmm” sound, and the vibrations of his lips pulse through mine. I could pass out from shock. I had no idea Tate could be so passionate, so gentle in his kiss. I was dead wrong. An android he is not.
There’s an ache between my legs, and I nearly yelp. Shit. That’s never happened to me during a first kiss before. It rarely happens even when I’m in more advanced stages of fooling around. I wonder if I’d have to fake it with him, like I’ve had to with other men I’ve been with. The heat of this kiss and the excitement it brings make me think that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to.
I turn my head to whip my hair out of my eyes and lose a moment of contact. His hands clamp me to his face. His body makes a convincing argument. Don’t move away, not even for a second, it says. Stay right here, keep kissing, and enjoy the delicious twinge in your lady parts. You earned this.
The ache settles into a warm tingle and floats through my body.
The melodic ring of my phone interrupts our car interlude. We release each other at the same time. We both seem to understand, even in the heat of arousal, the importance of promptly answering a phone call.
Jamie’s name flashes across the screen. For a moment, I wonder why he’s calling me, then I remember I invited him to meet me for a drink. Funny how a single tantalizing kiss can destroy the brain cells responsible for my short-term memory.
I answer, out of breath. I register Tate’s panting as well.
“Hey! I’m finally here,” Jamie says cheerily. “Are you somewhere in the back? I don’t see you.”
“No, I um . . . I stepped outside for a sec. Hang on, I’m about to walk back inside now.” I reach for the handle, but Tate pulls me away from the door.
“I can just go outside—”
“No!” I nearly shout, freezing in Tate’s grip. “Stay inside. I’ll be there in just one minute, okay?”
I hang up, then yank away from him. “I have to go,” I say without looking at him. I’m afraid if we make eye contact, I’ll end up lunging at him mouth-first again.
“Wait.” He sounds desperate.
“Jamie’s here. I have to.”
“You can’t go. Not yet.” His hands rest in fists on top of his legs. He seems to be putting considerable effort into not grabbing me right now. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad.
This kiss. This crazy kiss, as incredible as it was, has killed my capacity to think clearly. All I know is that I need to get out of his car now.
He shakes his head. “Just please listen to me.”
He wraps his hand around my arm, but it’s not a firm hold. Just pure softness. I stare, mesmerized by the way his creamy arm overlaps my tan skin.
“No,” is all I can manage to say.
“Please.” His eyes beg me to reconsider, but I can’t. I have to get out of this car, I have to meet Jamie, and I have to screw my head back on straight to make sense of what the hell just happened.
“I can’t.”
Sad eyes are all he gives me. His hand falls away, then I’m gone.
I walk back to Jimi D’s, catching a glimpse of myself in one of the glass windows. Matted hair, swollen lips, flushed cheeks, smeared eyeliner. The top of each hot-pink cup of my bra peeks up from the black scoop-neck top I’m wearing. I look like I just auditioned for a porno.
Using the window as a makeshift mirror, I try to quickly salvage my appearance. Luckily, there’s a giant shade pulled over the wall on the inside so none of the patrons can see me. Not that they would notice if they could see anyway. Judging by the booming music, cheering, and laughter, it seems like everyone is having a jolly good time. Everyone except me. And Tate, too, probably.
I smooth my hair with the minibrush I keep in my purse. It’s tangled to hell, but I manage. I wet a tissue and wipe clean the black smudges under my eyes, then adjust my shirt to a more respectable position. My lips and cheeks will have to calm down by themselves.
When I reach for the door, Jamie pops out, almost running into me.
“There you are,” he says. “I know you said to wait in there, but it was getting a bit loud and crazy. Can you believe they’re doing a Valentine’s Day contest? It’s August.”
I attempt a chuckle in return, but it sounds like I’m being strangled. I clear my throat. “Sorry for making you wait. I was just getting some air.”
I grip my purse in one hand, then the other. Then I jerk the strap all the way up my arm. This is some suspicious fidgeting I’m showcasing. I try to focus on Jamie’s face. His kind caramel eyes are an anchor for my wayward emotions. They center me for a half second.
“No worries at all. Feel like going somewhere quieter? Maybe the tavern across the street so we don’t have to drive?”
I nod and scurry across the parking lot to the sidewalk, half listening as he chatters about the importance of walking ten thousand steps a day.
“You okay? You look a little flushed.”
“No. Yeah. Yeah, no, I mean, I’m fine. Just hot is all.” I shake my head, hoping I can disorient myself into forgetting the impossible kiss in Tate’s car just minutes ago.
“You look beautiful, by the way.”
My mouth freezes in an “O” shape while I breathe. “Oh. Thanks.” If only he knew what a tangled mess I am inside.
He raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you could use some convincing.”
“I’m sweating like a pig. I don’t feel very beautiful right now.” I wonder if Tate thinks I’m beautiful. Is that why he kissed me? I bite the inside of my cheek. Don’t think about him. Focus on Jamie.
He tucks a chunk of my hair behind my ear. “Stop. You’re beautiful.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the crosswalk. A car idles next to us while we wait for the light to change. It’s dark gray, four doors, with a dent in the hood. I let go of Jamie’s hand when I spot the reflection of Tate’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Two full seconds of blue-gray sky until he blinks, then speeds away.
eight
Monday morning arrives after an entire weekend spent replaying the kiss with Tate. I couldn’t focus at the tavern when Jamie chatted about his upcoming camping trip. Something about hiking in the Rockies or the Andes. Even drinking a Scotch and water couldn’t settle me. After slurping it down, I bade him farewell with a hug and chaste kiss on the cheek. If only he knew where my lips had been.
Staring at my computer screen, I run my tongue along my bottom lip. I swear I taste Tate’s clean flavor. All weekend I was a ball of stress thinking about him, our kiss, and what the hell I’m going to do about it all. How embarrassing that a single make-out session has derailed me so thoroughly. I blame the best kiss I’ve ever had, and the ache it caused between my legs. The sensations linger over me like fog.
Footsteps echoing through the hallway snap me out of my haze. Tate settles in his office, logs on to his computer, and stares ahead. A full minute passes. With each second that ticks by, my shoulder muscles tense. My fingers are useless. I can’t type my name, let alone full sentences in this awkward loaded silence.
I guess it’s up to me to break it. I walk to his desk. “Hey,” I finally say.
“Hey, yourself,” he answers in an identical tone.
After plopping in the corner chair, I gaze ove
r at him and nearly gasp. His expression is completely tender. Not a smidge of anger or irritation can be detected anywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sport such a nonthreatening expression at work. Small bags sit under his eyes. I wonder if he had trouble sleeping this weekend like I did.
“About Friday night,” we both say at the same time. I smile; he purses his lips. Typical.
I clear my throat. He rests his palms on the tops of his thighs. I make a mental note of how much more handsome he is when he’s not actively scowling. The gentle shading of silvery-blond stubble along his jawline does me in.
“So . . . we kissed,” I stammer.
“We did indeed.” His tone is one of casual observation. He looks away and slowly licks his lips, like he’s lost in thought. The sight of his pink tongue emerging from his mouth is a shot of adrenaline to my heart.
For a second, I let myself remember how solid he felt under my hands. I recall his taste, his lips, the feel of his hair. God, his hair. It’s a tousled mess today, and it’s hypnotizing. The way the curls fall seems more reckless. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep myself in this chair. My hands would rather take a touch-tour of his hair and body.
I silence my dirty mind. “What should we do about it?”
“What do you mean?” He sounds surprised.
His gaze shifts from my face to the bottom of my neck, then to my chest. It lingers there briefly, then he looks away.
I open my mouth and for a moment I feel bold. I itch to tell him that the clean taste of his mouth is all I’ve been thinking about, that he’s the only guy to ever make me ache between the legs during a first kiss. I’m dying to climb on his lap, wrap my arms around his neck, press my forehead against his, and sink into his eyes until I pass out.
But when I fixate on his gaze, I lose my nerve. There’s an intensity behind the gray-blue that I’ve never seen before. Clarity hits for the first time in three days. It wasn’t him who initiated this conversation. I did. I walked to his office. He didn’t dare set foot in mine. If he felt any inkling of what I feel for him, he would have brought it up. He would have come to me. Instead, he walked to his desk without so much as a glance in my direction, like he does every morning. Today is just another day for him. It’s like Friday night never happened. If that’s not indifference to our kiss—to me—I don’t know what is.
If his actions just now weren’t evidence enough, his stare is. Wariness has replaced cool. Whatever affection I witnessed from him earlier is gone. I understand him now. He wants to ignore what happened between us and move on.
“It was a mistake, right?” I let out a quiet, defeated breath.
He looks at the floor and nods. “Yeah.” There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. I tuck it away in the back of my mind along with the fleeting boldness I felt.
I take the hint and start to walk back to my office.
“Good weekend for you, then?” he asks while facing his computer.
I pause at the doorway. “It was fine. How about you?”
This is one of the first normal exchanges we’ve had, and it feels phony. Maybe the two of us are incapable of anything but bickering and smart-ass comments.
“My weekend was okay.” He assaults his keyboard with renewed intensity. “You and Jamie have a good time on Friday night?”
I cringe, remembering that he saw us holding hands at the crosswalk while driving away. When I peer over, I can see the muscles of his jaw push against his skin. The way his mouth clenches indicates that this is probably the last time he will ever make small talk with me.
“It was okay. I mean, good.” Apparently “okay” is the word of the day. “We’re terrible at small talk, aren’t we?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but it comes off more like a sad observation.
A full five seconds pass before he answers me. “Obviously, it’s quite the ordeal for us to converse casually. Why don’t we go back to normal? Silence unless we need to talk about work.” The stony expression I’m used to seeing on his face is gone, replaced by one I can’t recognize.
Even though he’s right, I can’t help but feel hurt.
“Sounds perfect,” I say flatly, hoping it hides the despair in my voice. He can probably still hear it, though. I walk back to my office, an invisible cloud of rejection hanging over me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to fake anything with him.
* * *
• • •
IT’S WEEK TWO of building the house, and the heat wave hasn’t loosened its grip in the slightest. Even at nine a.m. it’s scorching hot, but I welcome it. Avoiding heatstroke is a necessary distraction after four days of tense silence with Tate. We’ve missed this week’s meeting for our social media and marketing project because he never bothered to schedule one. I suppose I could have done it, but I can’t bear to look at him, let alone meet him face-to-face. Ever since our kiss postmortem, there’s been an unspoken tension that coats the air between us like smoke. The less we interact, the better.
Even sitting across the hall from him, listening to his deafening keyboard punches and tapping is too much. At least out here, physical space separates us.
Unexpected moments of eye contact are the worst, though. Even during our daily volunteer shifts at the worksite, we still manage to accidentally catch sight of each other, then awkwardly look away. Jamie would be a fun diversion, but he left for his hiking trip the morning after we met up for a drink and won’t be back until tomorrow. We’re due for a proper date that doesn’t involve rock climbing or a predate kiss from Tate.
To stay busy, I’m taking progress photos of the worksite. Hopefully, sending them with the pitches I’ve written to local media outlets will drum up community interest in the charity homebuilding project.
I take a panorama shot, shrugging through the dull ache in my side that’s been plaguing me since yesterday. I blame the heat wave, which seems to be cooking me from the inside out. Or maybe it’s stress induced from the silent standoff between Tate and me. A weekend of resting is the cure, I suspect. I just have to stay preoccupied for the rest of day, avoid Tate, and I’m golden.
“Can you believe how the frame is coming along?” Lynn claps her hands in delight. She’s exchanged her trademark costume jewelry for jersey walking shorts and a pink hard hat. She looks downright adorable, like a mom in a Hallmark movie helping with a home renovation.
I gaze around, my professional mask in place. “It’s definitely something.”
In a few weeks, the family we’re building the house for is scheduled to stop by and view the worksite. Lynn mentions plans for a swing set in the backyard for the kids. What a thoughtful surprise that will be. I hope the family loves everything we put together for them.
“It was Tate’s idea,” Lynn says, waving at someone behind me.
When I turn around, I’m rewarded with the sight of Tate. Beautiful, exquisite, toned Tate. I try not to stare, but I fail miserably. He’s wearing this long-sleeve, skintight silver workout shirt that clings for dear life to his muscled arms and torso. I can’t say I blame the shirt. I’d cling to that body too.
If only the designer of this shirt could see Tate wearing it, doing it incredible justice. The way his torso cuts through the fabric is how that shirt is supposed to look on a body. He sets the hammer clutched in his fist on a nearby sawhorse. The visual reminds me of Thor decked out in all his superhero costume glory: hard, chiseled mass bulging through every inch of fabric. The shiny gray color is the perfect counter to his glowing white skin. He is the god of thunder dipped in a milk bath.
I’m not the only one who notices. No fewer than a dozen women and a couple guys at the surrounding worksites whip their heads around to gawk at him as he walks up to me.
Lynn is called away to answer a question, leaving us alone.
“What?”
Crap. I’m staring, and it’s obvious.
“Long sleeves,” I say quickly, shaking my head. I focus on the grass. “Interesting choice. A little warm for that, don’t you think?” I manage to sound seminormal after four days of not speaking to him.
“It’s moisture-wicking fabric. I’ll be fine. Besides, I need the sun protection.”
My memory bank pulls up an image from the beach next to the neighborhood I grew up in, of tourists encasing their children in sunscreen and thin long-sleeve T-shirts. Tate would fit right in.
He squints at me, and for a moment, I wonder if he can tell just how much I’m drooling over him. “Any reason why you’re standing around taking photos instead of helping with the frame?”
I roll my eyes before directing my gaze back down to my phone. “I’m taking progress photos of the worksite for our special project.” I swipe through the pictures I’ve already taken.
When I rub my forehead, my fingers pull away coated in sweat. Damn, this heat. Already I’m drenched, and I’ve only been here an hour. I can’t wait for the roof to go up so we’ll have a reprieve from the unrelenting sunshine.
Tate crosses his arms, his brutal stare still aimed at me. “Get any good shots, Annie Leibovitz?” And there’s the winning sarcasm I know so well.
Mimicking his stance, I lean closer to him. “This extra project was your idea, but you seem to have lost all interest. Someone has to stay on top of it. I guess it falls on me.”
Brushing past him, I make my way across the wide space to the area that will eventually be the kitchen and dining room. I drag a nearby ladder outside so I can get some exterior photos and hopefully a cool aerial shot.
Tate grabs the other end of the ladder, despite me trying to tug it away from him. It’s no use. The ladder is too heavy, and Tate is too strong for me to do anything other than drop my end at a random spot. I set it up at the back corner of the house and walk around. Tate looms like an overprotective bodyguard. I climb up the ladder for the aerial shot, ignoring the ache in my side. All this physical labor from the last few days is leaving me with soreness in muscles I didn’t even know I had.
