Page 67 of Once Upon a Lie

I look down at Valentina, waiting for her cue to move, but something shifts in the air when she tilts her head up to look at me. We’re practically nose to nose, her breasts brushing my chest, and I, only now, realize that I have both of my hands on her hips.

She inhales—sharp and shaky—and her fingers curl into the fabric at my sides like she’s bracing herself.

Her eyes search mine, and then she rises onto her toes and kisses me. It’s soft at first, like she’s testing whether this is real, but then she’s kissing me like there’s no question.

Obviously, I should stop it, but I don’t.

I deepen it before I can talk myself out of it, my hand tightening at her hip while the whole world drops away. It’s just her mouth on mine, her hand fisted in the front of my sweatshirt, and the same faint scent of cinnamon and sugar I’ve been obsessing over since the first time I walked into her shop.

I’ve tracked murderers and serial killers, I’ve spent nights in my car on surveillance jobs, I’ve been shot at, but this—flirting and laughing and teasing and kissing with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and somehow not falling in love—might be the most dangerous, riskiest thing I’ve ever done.

22

Valentina

Monday, October 18

12:00 a.m.

His lips are warm against mine, firm but hesitant, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind, but I tilt my head and press my body closer to his, surer of this moment than I have been of anything outside of bagels and Alfred in a long time.

For a second, the world disappears. The hum of the furnace, the faint scent of disinfectant—even the fact that we’re hiding in a linen closet because our HOA president moonlights as a security guard—might as well be white noise.

All I can think and feel and hear is him.

The heat of his body. The roughness of his jaw grazing my skin. The steady, deliberate way his hand brushes my waist like he’s afraid to want more. The way his breaths come out in rough groans.

I don’t even know how I started kissing him in the first place—I hadn’t planned it. And yet, I’m ready and willing to do it all over again if the timeline somehow resets like Groundhog Day.

For one breathless heartbeat, I’m not overthinking anything—I’m not second-guessing myself or cataloging pros and cons or reminding myself to be sensible—I’m just kissing him because I want to. And for a woman who’s busied herself to the point of a cobweb-encrusted heart, that’s worth a thousand do-overs and a whole truckload of reckless abandonment.

Because it feels good. It feels right.

When I finally pull back, a nervous, giddy giggle skips out of my lungs like a whisper—the kind of laugh that slips out when your body beats your brain to the punch.

“Wow,” he murmurs, barely audible.

“Wow,” I echo, because apparently my vocabulary has taken a brief leave of absence.

I push open the supply closet door and double-check that the coast is clear before I end up throwing myself at him again—because that feels dangerously possible the longer I stare into the pools of his chocolate-brown eyes—and gesture over my shoulder when it’s obvious Rita is gone.

I don’t look at him—I can’t without risking the stability of my legs.

“Okay,” I say briskly, clapping my hands once. “Mission accomplished. We survived. No HOA violations yet. Let’s go clean a gym.”

Shane lets out a low laugh behind me. “You’re very good at pretending that didn’t just happen.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say over my shoulder as I grab a spray bottle and towel from the shelf, tossing them toward him. “Get to work, New Guy.”

I climb onto one of the stationary bikes, pretending to check my phone and secretly replaying our kiss to myself while he starts wiping down a treadmill.

“You’re not going to help?”

“I am helping,” I retort. “Supervising is a crucial part of the process.”

“Right. Of course.” He shakes his head, and his smile turns amused. “Let me know if I miss a spot.”

“Oh, I will.”