Page 59 of The Wild Card

“Um.” I’m having trouble remembering words. “Arm around the shoulder. That’s a classic.”

He shifts, his hand sliding up to curl around my shoulder, tugging me into his side. Now I’m pressed against him, my cheek near his chest, his arm heavy and warm around me.

He smells like soap and something woodsy and clean laundry, and I want to press my nose against his neck and just breathe him in.

I don’t. Obviously.

“This okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” My voice is barely a whisper. “This is good.”

We stand there for a long moment. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Mine is doing something embarrassing and erratic that I hope he can’t feel.

“Emmie.”

I tilt my head up to look at him. Big mistake. His face is right there, inches away, and he’s looking at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Soft. Almost vulnerable. Like he’s working up the courage to say something.

“What?”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

My breath catches.

“We should…” He clears his throat. “We should probably practice the other stuff too.”

“Other stuff?”

“The, uh.” He clears his throat. “Kissing. If we have to do it. It should look natural.”

Oh.

“Right.” My voice comes out strange. “That makes sense. For believability.”

“For believability,” he echoes.

Neither of us moves.

“So should we…” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Should we kiss now? Should we schedule it? Should I just throw myself at him and hope for the best?

“We don’t have to.” His hand is still on my hip, warm and solid. “If you’re not comfortable—”

“No, I’m—I’m comfortable.” Too comfortable. That’s the problem. “It’s just practice.”

“Exactly,” he agrees.

Silence.

His thumb traces a small circle on my hip, and I shiver.

“Crew.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to kiss me or are we just going to talk about it?”

Something shifts in his expression. The softness sharpens into something else—something that makes my stomach flip and my skin feel too tight.

“I’m working up to it.”