Page 64 of Run Home

I giggle as he twirls me a second time, repeating his whistle. This time, he smoothly places my hand on his shoulder as he leans down, breathing in deeply against my curled hair before brushing a kiss to the place where my neck and shoulder meet.

I nearly die.

The desire—no, need—to kiss him for real is becoming unbearable. I’m starting to regret agreeing to him “properly wooing me” before kissing.

He wraps his arms around my waist and murmurs, “I’ve missed you so much, cielo.”

Sighing into him, I echo, “I missed you too.” I play with the curls at the nape of his neck, and he pulls me tighter against him. Trying to remain cognizant of the time so we aren’t late to the rehearsal I’m running, I loosen my arms and press a kiss to his cheek.

His brown eyes look almost black when I take a half step away. “This dress is beautiful on you,” he says.

I take in his half-finished outfit of white chino pants and a white button up, then reply, “We’d better get you whipped into shape, then, if you’re going to be my date.”

He snickers and takes my hand as we walk to his bedroom, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. There’s a pale-blue plaid sport coat on the bed, which he picks up and puts on. He secures one button and does a quick spin move to show off the completed look. Holding both hands out to his sides, he asks, “What do you think?”

I mimic his low whistle, which makes him grin and showboat even more. “I love it,” I say seriously.

Adrian moves to the attached bathroom to check his reflection. He clucks his tongue and points to the back of his head, where some of the meticulous curls are slightly mussed. “You and your wandering hands messed up my hair style.”

With a fiery smirk, I say, “You liked it, and you know it.”

“I absolutely know it,” he agrees with similar fire.

“Admit that you didn’t need my help at all. This was all just an excuse to see me,” I demand airily.

“That is completely false,” he says, feigning offense. “I need you to go pick out which chain I should wear with this outfit. Maybe a silver one, since that’s what you’re wearing.” He runs water over his fingers to fix the spirals of his longer curls, so I follow his directions.

At least, I start to.

As I walk toward his open closet door, curiosity gets the best of me. Did he really leave the second closet empty, or does he have a secret stash of extra shoes and hats in there?

Glancing over my shoulder to confirm that Adrian is looking at the mirror and not at me, I tiptoe to the closed door, push it open a crack, and flip the light switch as I poke my head inside.

It is empty.

Almost.

My lungs stall when I recognize the dress I wore to the gala hanging up at the back of the closet. With numb steps, I walk forward and finger the beadwork on the dress, recalling the night I wore it. The night that woke me up to my own feelings. I take the hanger down from the rack, staring at the dress as if in a trance.

“Sam?” Adrian’s voice calls from the room, and there’s no time for me to hide my location. I whirl around right as Adrian steps into the closet. He looks at me, the dress in my hands, back at me. He holds my gaze as he slides across the few feet to where I’m frozen at the back of the closet.

“Why do you have this?” I ask, my voice small.

His voice isn’t small—it’s full of certainty when he says, “The day after the gala, I called the store and asked them to ship the dress to my house and change the charge on my card from the rental fee to the purchase price. After the way you looked in this dress that night, there was no way I could let it be something you never wore again.”

“But we hadn’t even talked yet,” I reason to myself, “when you called the store.”

Adrian shrugs one shoulder. He cocks his head to the side and asks, “What were you doing in here?”

Licking my lips, I confess, “I wanted to see if it was really empty. Or if you were hiding a secret second wardrobe.”

Adrian’s eyes blaze with intensity as he looks at me. Without breaking eye contact, he takes the hanger from my hands and extends his arm to hang the dress back on the rod. His voice is low, heated, when he says, “I told you. This closet is reserved.”

I can’t breathe. But not in an “I’m panicking for oxygen” type of way—in a “the world has stopped and breathing is no longer necessary” way. Adrian’s gaze sears into mine, and I look down at his chest, reaching up to finger the lapel of his suit jacket. When I return my eyes to his, I find him watching me, completely still.

Flattening my hand, allowing my palm to glide from his lapel up the span of his chest, sliding around his neck to thread my fingers through the curls he just fixed, I lean onto my toes in an invitation.

Adrian immediately accepts, leaning the rest of the way to meet my lips. His left hand winds around my waist to my back, pressing me close as his right hand cups my face. Despite the yearning I feel in his grip on my back, his lips are gentle, kissing me with an almost holy tenderness.