Flower(26)

He stares back at me, his lips parted, like he understands everything I’m thinking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says. “That’s not what I wanted either.”

“Then what do you want?” I ask, swallowing down the words almost as quickly as they leave my lips. I can’t even trust my own thoughts anymore, my own voice. I’m saying things I normally would never say out loud—or think, for that matter.

“Charlotte—” he starts to say, moving toward me, but tentatively like he’s afraid I’ll run, bolt for the door, and never look back. But I’m locked in place. A million thoughts slamming against my skull, a tug-of-war, words colliding into one another in confusion. “I’m sorry for the other night,” he says, eyebrows slanted like he really is sorry, like it pains him to remember the events of that night. “I’m sorry for how I acted. I was just caught off guard. I didn’t realize I was your first kiss. And there are things you don’t know about me.” He takes in a deep breath, focuses back on me. “But I’ve missed you.” His mouth flattens. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And I don’t know why...but I haven’t felt like this in a long time. And then you just show up here, and all I want to do is kiss you again, tell you not to leave. But I know that I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because I might hurt you. Because our worlds are so different—and I don’t want to mess up your life.”

“Isn’t that my decision, not yours? I’m smart enough to know what I can handle.”

“I know you are,” he agrees. “And that’s part of what makes you so intriguing to me. You know what you want in life, you know exactly where you’re going, and I envy that.” I cringe a little at his description of me. As if I’m so responsible, so predictable. Maybe I don’t want to be that anymore—at least not the predictable part. “I just don’t want to ruin anything.”

“You act like it’s already destined to fail. Like there’s no way we could be anything but a disaster.” I can’t believe my own words—I’m actually arguing with him about a relationship we’re not even in.

“It’s how my life has been lately.”

“And so you’re just never going to take a chance on anything ever again?” I sound like Holly, and so not like myself. I’m the queen of not taking chances, unless they’re calculated. And now I’m asking him to take one. My logical brain has completely left this conversation—I’m now being driven by my heart.

He steps to within a foot of me, his bare chest reflecting the glow from the firelight. He studies my eyes, his breathing settling into a rhythm that I swear matches mine. “Is that what you want?” he asks. “To take a chance?”

I can’t breathe. My lips part, I find words, then lose them just as quickly. I can’t admit what I’m really feeling. To myself or to him.

But before I’m able to think of a way to deflect the question, he’s suddenly moving toward me. He slides his hands up along my jawbone and draws my face forward, sinking his lips into mine. For half a second, I’m unable to react, my body rigid beneath his hands. But then the warmth of his mouth sinks through me and I give in—I kiss him back. I breathe him in, the air sliding from his lungs to mine. His lips are needy, searching. The tips of my fingers just barely touch his hard chest, and my stomach unleashes a flurry of wings.

My eyelids flutter and he draws back his lips for only a moment, testing the space between us, and then he kisses me again, gently this time. My heartbeat hitches wildly as his fingers shift across my cheek, tracing a line along my skin, down the curve of my neck.

He pulls his fingers away before going any lower and I’m afraid he’s going to repeat what he did last time, wrench away from me and leave me all alone again. But this time he stays, drawing his fingers up through a section of my hair and tucking it behind my ear. “I’m sorry,” he says, gently dropping his hand as if he’s just broken some rule, invaded my personal space—lost control of himself for one brief moment—and now he needs to apologize. “I shouldn’t have done that. But I had to.”

“I’m not as breakable as you think,” I tell him.

A smile warms his eyes. “I’m starting to realize that.”

A moment passes and my heart climbs upward in my chest, craving his touch again. Wanting to feel his lips on mine. I glance at the floor, steadying myself. “What now?” I ask.

“Depends on your answer to my question,” he says, his gaze locked firmly on mine. “Do you want to take a chance?”

I’m worried my voice won’t be there when I speak, but it rises upward from my throat, a gasp of air. “Yes,” I admit, surprising myself. “Do you?”

He shifts closer and I think he’s going to kiss me again, but instead he says, “More than anything.”

But then the light seems to leave his eyes and something else takes form there. “If we’re going to do this,” he begins, swallowing, “then we need to take it slow.”

I feel my eyebrows pinch together, not entirely certain what he’s getting at.

“I need to make sure you don’t get hurt,” he adds. I shake my head, really not understanding what he means. “There needs to be rules.”