Page 92 of The Backup Plan

“Oh.” I choke the syllable out.

“Are you denying it?” He mimics my posture—arms crossed, chin jutted out.

“No. We did, in fact, kiss.” It was . . . incredible.

“And how exactly would you rate the kissing technique? My kissing technique. I’ve heard it gets rave reviews,” he says and is dead serious.

I chuckle and hate that even that comment makes me like him more. “You’re not exactly supposed to talk about what past people have said.”

“We’re not children, Doc.”

“You are so going to regret this conversation when you’re sober.”

He purses his lips seconds before a smile crawls across them. “If I remember it.” He pauses. “So, on a scale of one to ten? Time’s a wasting here.”

“Lucas.” It’s supposed to sound exasperated but comes out more amused.

“Because I just keep thinking about doing it again,” he states unabashedly.

Me too.

“So? One to ten?”

“What if I say it needs improvement?” I ask just to mess with him, but I think I’m the one who gets played because he steps in closer to me, the muscle in his jaw pulsing, and every part of him tugging on that slow, simmering burn he’s caused within me.

“If you say that then you’re just tempting me to show you differently. Again.”

And I don’t know what my brain is trying to think because without thinking, my mouth says, “Needs improvement.”

Lucas’s eyebrows shoot up, and his lips curl in a grin. “Why, Emery Porter, I was not familiar with your game.” He pauses, then takes a step back. “That’s contradictory though. You say that but then walk away and—”

He sways again. “Whoa,” I say as instinct kicks in, and I reach out for him.

He jumps back. “No touching for you. Doctor-patient boundary in full effect here.”

“You’re going to fall, Hale.” I grab his arm and move him toward the couch.

“Ooooh, I love it when you ‘Hale’ me.” He holds his hands up. “Okay, Porter.”

“Sit before you crack your head open. That’s the last thing I want to have to explain to Coach.”

He obeys, surprisingly compliant, and drops to the couch with a pleased hum. “I like when you’re bossy.”

I take a step back to create some distance. “You don’t get to like things about me.”

“Well, I do. So, take that,” he says like a five-year-old.

And like a five-year-old on the other side of that argument, I ask, “What is it that you like about me?”

He tilts his head and studies me for a beat. His lips are pursed and his glassy eyes are narrowed. “I like the little line you get between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating. I like your intelligence. How clearly driven you are because it takes guts to pick up and move to a new place without friends. I love the little curls you get right here when you sweat.” He gestures vaguely at his own forehead. “Or how you pick up and put things back at stores with such care like they’re a prized possession even though they’re in the dollar bin. And the way you pretend you don’t notice people, but really, you notice everything.”

My chest tightens at his observations. The joke’s on me because that’s not what I was expecting. I was expecting the usual, boring response. Pretty. Smart. Good sense of humor. Not something like this.

“How do you even—”

“I notice things too,” he says proudly. Simply.

I swallow. This is dangerous. This version of him—loose, open, unguarded—is worse than confidence. Worse than flirting.