Page 5 of The Write Place

I stop walking and squint at him, tumbling these questions around in my mind, but none of them seems impersonal enough for our little game. I throw up my hands in defeat.

“Your turn?” I ask hopefully.

“Hmm.” He taps his chin as if he’s considering something, though from the mischievous expression on his face, I’m sure he already knows what he’s going to say. “I do have one question I ask every interesting new person I meet. It’s pretty personal, but your answer doesn’t need to be.”

My curiosity is piqued. “I’ll take the bait,” I say. His smile widens, and he leans closer, his voice dropping as if he’s worried someone nearby will hear, though there isn’t anyone close.

“Tell me something about you no one else knows.” His gray-blue eyes sparkle.

“Oh wow.” I lean back suddenly, impressed. “That’s a great question, and I’m not sure how to answer it.” He just waits patiently while I deliberate.

It takes a moment, but I settle on something and lean in even closer, conspiratorially. “Okay. Something about me that not many people know is…” I lean even closer and lower my voice, “I hate pumpkin coffee drinks.”

He tips his head back and howls his laughter. I do my best to keep a straight face, stoically putting my hand on his arm. “This is important, Evan. I take my classically Midwestern love of all things fall and pumpkin spice very seriously. Candles. Body wash. Scented lotion. Pumpkin beer. Pumpkin pie. Pumpkin patches. Pumpkin carving. I love it all. On the surface, one would think I clearly hold the almighty pumpkin coffee very dear to my heart when, in fact, I can’t stand it. Too much sweet and not enough spice, in my humble opinion.”

His eyes are a little wider and more intense when he looks at me again. “That was an excellent answer. I definitely did not see that one coming.”

“What about you? What’s something about you no one else knows?” I ask. He seems a little surprised at the question.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. When I look at him quizzically, he shrugs a shoulder. “Most people just want to talk about themselves and don’t return the question.”

“Well, I guess I’m not most people.” I tilt my head, waiting for his response.

“I guess you’re not.” He studies me for a minute, then takes a step toward me, and my heart skips a little bit at the closeness. His eyes search mine for a moment before he says, quietly and seriously, “Well, Mac, I can say with certainty that one thing not a single soul knows about me is how much I want to kiss you right now.”

My eyes widen in surprise, which must not have been the reaction he was going for because he retreats a step. He runs a hand through his hair and rests it on the back of his neck.

“I am so sorry. I’m not sure why I said that.” He laughs self-consciously. Not wanting him to feel too bad about it considering all the stomach-flipping and heart-fluttering that’s been happening to me all night, I force my expression into something less shocked. He’s rubbing the back of his neck and looking up at the empty night sky, but when I don’t say anything for a minute, he turns toward me sheepishly, making him appear much more vulnerable than when he was sitting at the bar with his whiskey, and it makes my heart squeeze a little to see it.

And it could be the openness in his features or the boldness of his admission. It could be the freedom of knowing he won’t be here any longer than six weeks or Jenny’s spontaneity rubbing off on me, but before I can talk myself out of it, I take a step forward, grab his shirt in my hand, and press my lips to his.

His lips are incredibly soft. This is a man who takes his personal skincare routine very seriously, and the incongruity of his soft hands and lips with the hard planes of the rest of his body makes my knees a little weak. He brings his hands to my waist and pulls me even closer to him, and I melt into the contact.

I expect the kiss to be urgent and hungry, but it isn’t. It’s intense, but it is also slow and sensual. His lips part mine, and I bring my hand up to his neck. His breath quickens, and I press myself closer still, feeling the planes of his body against mine. In the back of my mind, I’m aware that this well-read man is likely someone who is very familiar with epic love stories and beautifully written, sensual scenes, and the knowledge floods me with warmth. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced, and it is completely exhilarating.

His hands stiffen against my back, and I immediately think he’s regretting this, so I pull away to look at him. His eyes are hooded, and his lips are a little swollen, but he doesn’t make a move to close the distance between us. I let go of his shirt and take a small step back. He lets me, though his hands linger on my waist. I notice I wrinkled his shirt where I grabbed it, and the asshole part of my brain wonders how he’ll feel about some stranger crushing his $100 t-shirt in her fist.

When he doesn’t say anything, my self-consciousness starts creeping back in. “I should probably go,” I suggest slowly. This seems to shake him out of whatever trance he had been in. He seems reluctant to let me leave, but he puts his hands back in his pockets and attempts a polite smile.

“I shouldn’t have started this. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t even live here, and I don’t want this to be complicated for you.” He does seem incredibly sorry, but I’m not convinced that’s what he’s sorry about. His upper body is still tilted toward me as if he’s having a hard time separating himself, and he removes a hand from his pocket to lightly brush his lips before letting it fall back to his side.

I shrug, trying my best to get my heart rate under control and appear nonchalant, but the floating feeling is back again, and I know it’s time to remove myself from whatever this is. “It was a kiss. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that. Don’t worry about it. But I really should go,” in order to save myself more embarrassment is the end of that sentence that I don’t say out loud.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’d like to see you again, though. If you want.”

I’m not sure what he thinks could possibly happen between us in six weeks or how it wouldn’t eventually end up complicated. And then I abruptly remember my failed attempts at school-year dating and how hard it is to find time to see anyone when things get so busy in the fall and winter and how I’ve left a trail of neglected boyfriends in my wake, never wanting them to get too close as the fall gives way to winter. I decide to let him down easy.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “On the great philosophical question of fate versus free will, I’m firmly on the side of fate kicking things off. It’s a small enough suburb, Evan. If we were meant to see each other again, we definitely will.” I start the walk back to my house, and he blows out a slow breath behind me.

“I hope we do,” he calls after me. I just look over my shoulder, smile, and wave.

Chapter 3

Later that night, I hear Jenny fumbling with her key to my place to let herself in. My nightstand clock reads almost one in the morning. I chuckle to myself and roll over, falling back asleep almost immediately after I hear her flop on the guest room bed. I wake up several hours later to sunlight streaming through the edges of my blinds and the smell of coffee and omelets wafting through my door. Jenny is an amazing cook, and a definite perk of her sleepovers is waking up to her making breakfast in the morning.

I pull on a sweatshirt over the tank top I slept in, but don’t bother changing out of my short pajama shorts before making my way to the bar counter. I sit facing the kitchen. Jenny is facing the stove, her back to me, also in a sweatshirt and shorts she must have left here before. Her hair is in a perfect, wavy ponytail and she definitely looks like she did not roll in here a few short hours ago.

She hums an incoherent tune as she uses my spatula to deposit two omelets on two plates and sets both of them on the counter, coming around to sit on a stool next to me.