Page 48 of Blame it on the Kiss
She closed her eyes and practically melted into him. Her nipples pebbled into tight, achy points, a rush of heat filled her tummy and spread lower. Even though one night didn’t constitute any kind of obligation, Bryce gave it to her. At least for right now.
“Ow! Frick.” Her eyes flew open as she whipped her arm back from the stovetop and shook her hand furiously back and forth.
Bryce stumbled back. “You burned yourself?” She nodded. “Let’s get it under cold water.” He turned on the faucet and pushed up her sleeve just before she thrust her hand under the spray. “Sorry,” he mumbled, like a little boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“You should be,” she teased. “You distracted me from what I was doing.”
He reached around her back and turned off the knob for the burner. That would teach her to let the pan warm up before she was really ready.
“You’ve been distracting me since the moment our eyes met.”
She purposely focused her gaze on her burned fingers, afraid he’d see how much he affected her, too.
“Hey.” He tucked his finger under her chin and guided her face toward his. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” She turned off the faucet and dried her hand with a paper towel. “I really do want to cook for you, though, so sit at the table and let me do my thing.”
“You all right?” he asked, nodding at her hand.
“Fine.” She waved him off and cooked her special grilled cheese sandwiches—cheddar cheese, bacon, alfalfa sprouts, and ranch dressing on sourdough.
While they ate, they talked about everything and nothing and she relaxed. He’d mentioned he liked hearing her voice, but she could listen to him talk all day. His smooth, deep sound, full of confidence and sincerity touched down to places inside her no one else had reached.
“Middle name?” Bryce asked.
Being with Bryce was so easy she didn’t mind his onslaught of questions. “Rosalie. Yours?”
“Honor Rosalie Mitchell,” rolled off his tongue with such reverence that he wiped out the negative implication she always associated with hearing her mom say it.
“Okay, quit stalling and give me yours.”
“Aleksius.” He gave the cutest squint to go along with the disclosure. “It’s a family name.”
“You don’t like it?” She lifted his empty plate and put it on top of hers.
“Not even a little. Football or baseball?” The sleeves of his charcoal gray ribbed cotton shirt were pushed up to his elbows and she glanced at his strong forearms and hands, imagining them handling her for a touchdown.
“Football. Cupcake or brownie?”
“Brownies plural. But if we’re going to talk dessert, I know exactly what I want right now.”
Honor knew, too. Yet the tiny thread of self-preservation she’d been clinging to must have shown on her face because Bryce added, “But I can be patient. You’re worth the wait.”
“You don’t know enough about me to say that.”
“I know you.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “I know you care more about others than you do yourself. I know you don’t pretend to be something you’re not. You love your brother and movies and antiques. When you laugh your eyes sparkle like a thousand stars tucked inside a glass jar. The rain isn’t your favorite thing. And you make the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever eaten.”
Her heart stopped. With a few candid words he made her feel important. Special. Worthy of someone like him. At least for the next few hours.
For seven long years she’d carried the burden of hurting Lance. Guilt and pain still weighed heavily, breaking her faith and belief that she deserved to belong with anyone. But maybe Bryce saw something in her she’d yet to see in herself. Maybe for tonight she did deserve to be swept away.
She pulled him up by their clasped hands and walking backward, led him down the hallway toward her bedroom. His unwavering stare heated her skin, the fathomless dark pools whispering he was in this 100 percent, too.
No one had ever looked at her like that before.
They stumbled into her room. She flipped the wall switch for the vintage Victorian lamp hanging from the ceiling. Soft light spilled around them.
Crap. She’d forgotten her closet had vomited clothes onto her bed.
