Page 13 of Blame it on the Kiss
“Hey, Dylan. Keep your eyes on the road.”
He saluted and she turned to watch him drive off. Duct tape covered his right taillight and a black and white “Be Excellent to Each Other” bumper sticker with a picture of Abe Lincoln helped hide chipped paint. She smiled, dug out another fritter, this one loaded with powdered sugar, and whirled back around.
Where she collided with a hard chest, inhaled the powdered sugar, and proceeded to cough in a fit of chokehold proportions.
One big, warm hand wrapped around her upper arm. A second hand patted her back. He said something, but she couldn’t make it out since she was about to hack up a lung. She knew his voice, though. And his delicious smell. His hands stayed put until she finally quieted down.
Through watery eyes, she glanced up at her roadblock. His gray T-shirt had coffee stains splattered across it. And… she sucked in her bottom lip… fan-fritter-tastic, she’d spit up on him, too.
She moved her almost-empty coffee cup to her other hand and wiped away the evidence of her spew. Mortified and at a loss for words, she kept right on rubbing his chest like a total lunatic.
And because he had a really nice chest. It distracted her from the apology that finally landed on the tip of her tongue.
“You done?” Bryce’s deep, sexy voice brought her back to her senses. What the heck was she doing?
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll buy you a new shirt, or clean this one.” She finally met his amused, and also very amiable, eyes. “Fritter?” She held up the bag.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I was reading a text and not watching where I was walking. You okay?”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other for several super-charged seconds before he took the bag and looked inside. “There’s only one left.”
“It’s all yours.” No way did she plan to put any more fritter near her mouth.
He pulled the baked treat out and took a bite. She watched him like he’d been coated in powdered sugar, too, and she wanted to lick it off him. Not good. Sooo not good. She looked away, reminding herself she was behaving like the worst kind of friend.
He finished it off, crinkled the bag into a ball, and said, “Thanks.”
“Sure. I, uh, guess I’ll see you later at the rehearsal dinner.” She stepped around him. “Have a good day.”
She’d passed three stores when she felt him come up beside her. He’d either taken the minute to watch her backside or decide if he wanted more of her company. Both could only lead to trouble.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
She cringed and thought about changing directions. Unpacked boxes and a mess of inventory cluttered the antique store, and besides that, Honor liked to keep quiet about it. But since Bryce already knew about the list, she said. “To my antique store.”
“Does it have something to do with Payton’s list?”
Her heart hurried its beat. “Yes, but here’s the thing.” She tossed her coffee cup into a trashcan. “No one knows about the list. People in town know Pay and I wanted to go into business together, and I’ve told everyone this is to honor that dream. But if you could keep the whole list thing to yourself, I’d really appreciate it.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Thanks.”
“On one condition.”
The small two-story building with white trim around the windows and a sloped shingle roof came into view. Honor rubbed behind her ear. She ground her teeth together. “What condition?”
“Tell me what else is on the list.”
She stopped walking and without thinking jammed her finger into his chest. “You’re blackmailing me to stay quiet?”
He stepped back and raised his arms, bent at the elbows, palms flat. Surrender her ass. And if he thought his cute little smile and cleft in his chin along with those dreamy, too-sharp eyes would have some affect on her, he was wrong. She wouldn’t tell him another thing about Payton’s wishes.
“I’d rather call it friendly persuasion,” he said.
“We aren’t really friends and you’re about as congenial as a hippopotamus with a tooth ache.” She strode away. “And forget what I said about your shirt,” she called over her shoulder. Childish. But whatever.
