Page 73 of Clinically Bewitched
Me: horrified, aroused, and experiencing what could only be described as a complete psychological break.
“So,” she breathed. “That happened.”
“That happened,” I agreed.
“Your colleagues have a betting pool about us.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
“That’s kind of invasive.”
“They care about you.”
“They’re enjoying my suffering.”
“Maybe both.” She reached up, gently smoothing down my hair where she’d mussed it. “You kissed me.”
“I’m aware.”
“You didn’t plan to kiss me.”
“No.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked at her, really looked at her. At her ridiculous optimism and her cosmic certainty, and her absolute refusal to let me hide behind my walls. At the way she had somehow, in less than forty-eight hours, turned my entire carefully ordered life into beautiful chaos.
“Because,” I said quietly, “you wouldn’t stop talking.”
She laughed, bright and delighted and completely unrepentant.
“I’m not going to apologize for that.”
“I know.”
“I’m probably going to keep not stopping talking.”
“I know.”
“And I’m definitely going to keep showing up in places you don’t expect me.”
“I know.”
“And believing in the universe and cosmic connections and—”
I kissed her again.
Softer this time. Slower.
Not because I needed her to stop talking.
But because I wanted to.
