When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  How in the world can we remain strictly buddies when she’s being all sweet and open instead of prickly and shut off the way I’m used to? What happened to the girl I’d dismissed as plain, old hot, but strictly off-limits? If this is how she’s going to be, all vulnerable, sexy innocence with that sweater spilling oh-so-perfectly over the curviest parts of her luscious body, I’m going to need SPF, a fire extinguisher, and flame retardant clothing to survive being here tonight.

  “Lead the way,” I gesture with a tilt of my head, yet neither of us takes a step. She rocks back on her heels, blinks, nibbles on the edge of her lip again. “Unless, you’d rather we stand here.”

  “No! TV’s that way. Of course, you know that, right? Duh.”

  “Hey.” I catch her by the wrist, stop her retreat before she can bounce away.

  Maybe my grip is stronger than I realize because she jerks, sucking in a sharp breath. I release her immediately, then wish I had the right to pull her closer. Just the thought has me returning my hand to a modicum of safety deep inside my pocket.

  “Does my being here make you nervous, Simone?”

  “Yes.” She lays a hand over her heart, gulps in air.

  That one tiny word explodes with the alacrity of a missile launched from her mouth, hitting me in the chest. Simone’s defenses aren’t just down, they’re non-existent.

  I’m not leaving until I know which truth serum she took, how much, and how long I have before it wears off.

  “I was hoping it didn’t show,” she adds, and it’s all I can do not to laugh.

  I gave myself a pep talk on my way over, resolved to steer clear of anymore physical contact between the two of us. But with her like this? I need to kiss her again, if for no other reason than to prove what happened in that closet was a fluke.

  Or not.

  Everything about her seems crisper. Like there’s a lens correcting my vision to something better than 20/20. How’s it possible, while standing this close, knowing how neatly the top of her head fits right nicely under my chin, Simone is even more attractive? Those cheekbones, the almond shaped eyes made for batting at hapless suckers? Makeup is an insult on this girl’s face. That mouth, enticingly plump like a Ruston peach? Surgeons get rich off of women wanting lips like hers.

  “Not much,” I lie to ease her anxiety.

  “Oh, good!”

  She nibbles her lip again. Surely, it’s my turn to do that.

  I free my hands, ready when she takes another leap backward, as if she’s read my mind, her back meeting the wall and the neck of her sweater slipping to a new low. That useless clip forfeits its tenuous hold.

  Loosed hair tumbles around her shoulders, falling into its natural disconformity around her face. I hear the barrette skitter across the floor, but don’t see it because, God help me, have I ever seen anything as gorgeous as that delicate pull in her neck as she swallows?

  Ripples of lust slog through my veins. My heart lodges so tightly in my throat, it’s amazing I haven’t suffocated. “Why do you straighten your hair?”

  She circles a hand and wiggles her fingers over her head like this gesture explains everything, then interprets. “It gets frizzy when I don’t.”

  I step closer. Plant an elbow against the wall, trapping her in place. Skim my fingers along the curve of her neck, let my thumb graze the hollow of her throat.

  “It’s beautiful. You should stop.”

  Her skin is silk against my fingertips. Soft. Smooth. Warm. I trace her hairline, enjoying the journey to her nape until, finally, I spread them wide. Tunnel deep until my forearm disappears inside the depths of her velvety locks. I knead her scalp, content to stay right here for the rest of the night.

  Her head falls back, eyelids flutter closed. A soft, needy moan slides from her parted lips, nearly causing me to bite my own tongue in half trying to keep from doing the same. “Has—hasn’t anyone ever told you messing with a black woman’s hair is a punishable offense?”

  “Nope, hadn’t heard that.”

  My other hand gets jealous. Who can blame it? Touching Simone is proving to be one of the better unexpected pleasures of life. I don’t bother denying its exploration beneath the hem of her sweater, or pretend I’m concerned with how it plays around the waistband of her jeans. Not even unhappy when it lands on a nifty little belt loop that aids in enabling me to pull her closer until I’ve eliminated the last inch of space between us.

  Definitely no padding in that bra.

  The scent of her hair lures me closer still. Swear I’m developing an addiction.

  “How you gonna punish me, Simone? Gonna kiss me again?”

  Please, God, let her say yes. Please. PLEASE.

  All it would take is a tilt of her chin, we’re so close. Right or wrong, I want it. Without a game to hide behind, without a bottle determining our fate. No concern for who’s watching the clock. Outcome will likely be the same, but I don’t care. Least I’ll have the memories.

  Her head lolls from one side to the other. Does she want me to kiss her neck? Those lips? Is that what she wants? Lord knows, I’m tempted.

  “Cat got your tongue, beautiful?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “You?”

  “I re-ally . . .” her voice trails off.

  “Really what?” I press.

  “I really, really wish I could be with you, Whit.”

  No sooner do the words register in my brain before Simone slaps a hand over those lust-worthy lips of hers. Her eyes snap wide in horror. She mumbles something along the lines of didn’t mean that, I think, although the tick, tick, TICK of my heart has grown so loud in warning there’s only seconds before detonation, so who knows? My hearing may well be skewed.

  What I do comprehend is how quickly she wrenches free of my hold, leaving behind a few tangled strands of hair around my fingers as a souvenir. If she notices, I can’t tell.

  “Please leave,” she chokes right before she darts up the stairs.

  Leave? After what she just said? Is she for real? Walking out that door before I know what she meant by wanting to be with me? Screw that noise.

  Two reallys. That was no stutter.

  Did she mean only for this week? In a relationship? Something a hell of a lot more physical than kissing? Do I care one way or the other when any of the above means being in her company?

  Okay, head in the game, Devereaux.

  After all the hide-and-don’t seek we’ve already played, I need to be rational. Simone’s skittish. Push too hard, too fast, she’ll disappear in a blink. Less. But, leaving? Not an option. There’s too much at stake. Endless nights of staring at the ceiling are taking their toll. I need all the rest I can get for the extra I’ll have to put in at practice—penance for earning that dreaded yellow paper and breaking the number two team rule.

  Mrs. Alvarez reprimanded me twice for daydreaming. I referred to an article I’d read in Men’s Health on how “wakeful resting” helps memory retention after learning something new. Unfortunately, Mrs. Alvarez is neither a subscriber, nor a believer. Ryan had warned me how much she enjoys scribbling her name on detention slips. I found out firsthand. Unless Coach intervenes in favor of my participation on the field, I’ll be serving time when we get back on Monday.

  I’ll pitch a tent out on the lawn, if that’s what it takes. I can only go without a decent night’s sleep for so long. Simone and I are dealing with this face-to-face. Mostly, because I like looking at her.

  Creepy or not, I tuck the locks of her hair in my pocket, then drop, do a set of twenty-five. Then another, while I think.

  Go after her?

  Would it be worth the risk of Ms. Katie deciding to reload more than her suitcase?

  What if there’re rules against guys stepping foot in Simone’s bedroom?

  Has she ever had a guy in her room?

  Just the thought activates my feet into motion.

  I tiptoe halfway, listen for any noises that’ll rat out her newest hiding spot. “Simone?�
�

  Nothing.

  Climb another stair, call again.

  Not a peep.

  Clear two more, leaving the last three between me and six doors to choose from. One stands partially ajar so I can see that the floor is tiled. The others are a crap shoot.

  “Simone?”

  “Go home, Cowboy.”

  Second door on the right.

  I press my ear to the door, hear movement. Give the knob a twist. Locked. No surprise. We’ve always had some sort of buffer separating us.

  “Ain’t leaving, sweetheart. Not ‘til we talk.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Tough.” I’m careful to keep my voice low in case her aunt chooses now to search for us. Lord knows I’ve done enough to make a bad impression on the woman after last night’s visit. “You wanna be with me, I wanna know how.”

  Am I in the best position to force my hand? Course not. But really, really. She leaves me no choice.

  An eon of deafening silence passes. I break first. “C’mon, Simone. Sooner we deal, sooner we get back to being us. Don’t want Ashley getting suspicious, right?”

  I know. I wielded the weapon with the deadliest potential.

  Desperate times, and all that.

  For months, I’ve tried forgetting about those kisses, the way our bodies fit against one another. Tried boxing this girl in with mere acquaintances instead of imagining what it would be like if she were genuinely happy to see me or how she looks naked.

  Hey, I’m a guy. Simone’s hot.

  My attraction for her is seriously spiraling out of hand. No matter which direction Ashley and I are headed, I need to practice self-control. I don’t even know for certain if Ashley and I are completely over. The possibility looks grimmer with each passing day, but we have history. I owe it to both of them to get my shit together before we all wind up hurt.

  Fight the good fight. Stay strong. Resist temptation. Long as Simone’s still dressed when she opens that door, I’ll do my part, maintain the infinitesimal shred of protection we have left.

  Read: Simone so much as jiggles that knob? I’m toast.

  “Can I come in?” I ask anyway.

  “No.”

  Good answer. “Least talk to me.” That groan in response is right, too. “Sitting?”

  “Yeah.”

  I join her, make myself comfortable on my side, settling my back against the barrier separating us. May be my imagination, but the wood feels warmer down here.

  The door, I mean.

  “I have guy friends,” she murmurs, taking the lead. “We can do that, can’t we? Friends. You think?”

  I don’t. Straight friendship between opposite sexes is already an anomaly when you’re under the age of decrepit. Throw in undeniable chemistry that permeates every molecule in the air for a thousand-mile radius, like with us, friendship becomes the funniest joke on the planet. But it’s either an attempt at friendship or insanity, way I see it. Better yet, friendship to insanity. Friendship first will just be the slower, torturous route. This is one time when being Dev’s son comes in handy. Years of suffering through his posturing has educated me in the mastery of selling.

  “Certainly,” I agree, infusing my tone with a healthy dose of bullshit. Good thing she can’t see my face right now. God knows she’d send me packing. “We’ve hung out in the same circle for years. Just neglected to discover stuff about one another. This is our chance. Think about it, we’re already more than halfway there. I know your middle name, we both like movies. End of the week, we’ll be like brother and sister.”

  “Okay, that’s nasty, all things considered.”

  True. “Won’t know ‘til we try. What’ve we got to lose?” Besides our ever-loving minds, of course.

  “Ashley,” she replies, soberly.

  There is that.

  “You won’t have to, Simone. Promise.” I purposely leave myself out of this equation, because let’s face it, odds of Ashley and I going back to the way things were are about as probable as hitting the Mega-millions. Without having bought a ticket. “We can do this.”

  I hold my breath, pray my weak argument is enough to sway her. I have no script, no willpower to let this go. I’m a guy teetering on the brink between alienating the girl holding place in his heart and the girl ruling his head once this week is over. I’ll need good memories, especially since I’m not sure which is which anymore.

  “All right, but we need rules.” she finally concedes, freeing my lungs from the fingers of panic pinching them closed like a knotted balloon.

  “Course, we do.”

  “Whit.”

  “What? I was agreeing with you.”

  “Uh, huh. You can’t touch my hair.”

  “That rule sucks.”

  “I mean it, Cowboy. No sniffing, either.”

  “C’mon, Simone, I’ve gotta breathe. You shouldn’t smell like cake.”

  “That’s my leave-in conditioner. Coconut and vanilla.”

  “I’m a fan.”

  “I’ll buy you a bottle. No kissing.”

  Whoa. “No deal.”

  “Whit—”

  “What? You’re crawling all over me every time we’re alone, woman.”

  She bursts out laughing. “I. Am. Not.”

  “Deny all you want. I know what I know.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, stifling my own laughter. Listening to hers is better. She has a nice laugh. Not wasteful, like she’ll laugh at anything and everything. More like she saves it for the really good stuff. How have I missed noticing before today?

  So far, I hate Simone’s rules, but I know she’ll pull the plug unless I cave at least a little on something. I can only emulate my father so much, though. I draw the line at outright lying. Honesty might set us back on square one, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take.

  I wait until her laughter subsides, then hit her with the truth. “Short of cutting off my own lips, the most I can promise is trying not kissing you, Simone. I’m a healthy eighteen-year old guy, you’re a distractingly hot girl who I’m insanely attracted to. Kissing you ranks pretty damn high in my thoughts. Nevertheless, I’m aware doing it again may complicate matters more than they already are.”

  “Yeah, it would.” For a few excruciating minutes, I’m convinced I’ve blown my chance, until she speaks. “Try hard.”

  I probably won’t. These past few weeks have proven I’m a menace to my own mental health. Enforcing enough restraint to limit myself to kissing her on the cheek will probably send me over the edge. Yeah, I know nothing can come of us. Still.

  “Anything else?”

  “No one from school can see us together.”

  Wasn’t expecting that one, but not a bad idea. “Okay, so, you wanna hang here in your hallway all week?”

  “No, silly. We can meet at the library or something.”

  Has she lost her mind?

  “It’s Spring Break, Simone. I’m not spending it surrounded by books. Bad enough we’re stuck here in Parkland instead of on the beach with everyone else. We’ll ride over to the Heights or something.”

  Grover Heights is two suburbs over—sort of like parishes where I come from—less than ten miles away. There’re a handful of overpriced boutiques, a coffee club, and a pricey restaurants not meant for my meager funds. They have a nice park, though, not to mention a lone moderately priced eatery with decent food. Likelihood of us running into someone from school is pretty slim.

  “That requires driving.”

  “Good thing I know how.”

  She sighs. “You can’t drive fast.”

  “Haven’t I proven by now you can trust me to drive us more than five miles?”

  “No.”

  “Wow, thanks. I’ll have you know I started driving when I turned twelve. My record remains spotless. If we’re doing this, you have to trust I’ll keep you safe, Simone.” I take her silence as acceptance. “I have a rule.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “No Cowboy for
the rest of the week. Call me Whit.”

  “Cowboy suits you.”

  “You use it to keep me at a distance. Defeats the purpose if we’re trying to be friends.”

  Silence. “Fine. May I call you Whitney?”

  “Not if you expect me to answer.”

  “Spoilsport,” she huffs. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Ever had a guy in your room?”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Curious.”

  “Two,” she answers after an eternity.

  Two? What the hell?

  “Who? No, never mind. I don’t want the answer. You wanna be with me how?”

  “Can we please not go there?”

  “Spoilsport,” I lob back. “One more.”

  “Uh, huh?”

  “Which medicine did you take last night?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Simone

  Most nights, my comforter ends up on the floor with my pillow. The latter survived this morning’s battle. The former did not. The flannel sheet, my last vestige of heat, is crumpled around my toes. Cool air assaults my bared flesh despite rays of sunlight streaming through the window. They tickle the fine hairs on my arm. More than anything, I want to grab the downy warmth puddling within reach, but that will mean blowing my other cover, so I stay put. Breathe slow and deep, like I’m one level of unconsciousness away from being declared comatose.

  “Oh, quit faking. I know you’re awake, Simone. Now, up and at ‘em. I made plans for us today and we still need to finish our discussion.”

  “Now?” I whine.

  Throbbing temples, dry mouth. My body’s common reaction from consumption of any medication stronger than cough drops. I can’t say I know what a hangover feels like, but I imagine this is pretty close. Sure, I’ve managed to crack one eye open, but after only three lousy hours of sleep, my limbs feel pinned to the mattress.

  “Mm, hm.”

  Aunt Katie lounges in the chair across from my bed, leisurely sipping coffee from her favorite mug. One jean-clad leg is draped over the arm, her pink polished toes peeking out beneath the hem. She looks comfy.

  I’m not getting out of this.

  “This isn’t awake.” I push tangled hair out of my face. I forgot to wrap it again last night, so guaranteed I’m giving Medusa a run for her money in the hairstyle department this morning. “This is child cruelty.”