The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(59)

“Why didn’t you hit that guy?”

He strokes the top of my head, fingers doing this massaging thing to my scalp. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Does that mean you would have punched him if I hadn’t been standing there?”

“Probably.” His fingers stop for a few seconds. “I really wanted to knock him on his fucking ass.”

His fingers resume their circular motions.

“W-what are you doing to my hair?” I sigh, voice wistful.

“Comforting you? I think. Obviously I’m drunk.”

He doesn’t seem drunk to me, not in the slightest, and if I’d thought for one second he was, I wouldn’t have gotten in his truck.

“You are?”

“No. But I wish I was shitfaced. Hammered.” He doesn’t crack a smile. Not even the hint of one as his lips hover near my ear. “You always smell so good, Vi. Like sunshine and shampoo and flowers. Violets.”

I take my own whiff of him, inhaling his masculinity. Inhaling the strength he exudes. It permeates, rolling off of him when he walks.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Violet?”

I nod into his chest. “I am now.”

Zeke pushes the hair out of my eyes, fingers the coronet braid cascading over my right shoulder. Rubbing the ends of it between the pads of his fingertips, he leans in and lifts it to his nose. Inhales.

“Violets,” he says, repeating his earlier sentiment.

He’s wrong though; it’s cardamom and mimosa.

I don’t correct him.

“Violet.”

I stand feebly, awkwardly in the shadows of my front porch, letting this behemoth of a man sniff my hair for the second time tonight, the tip of his nose warm when it brushes my cheek. It trails its way to the crux just below my ear. His lips press on the tender skin of my temple.

One heartbeat.

Two.

I don’t trust myself to speak.

To move.

To breathe.

I stand paralyzed, still as stone, rooted to the rough-hewn porch boards that should have been replaced years ago. Zeke’s solid hands cup my elbows then glide up my arms. Land on my shoulders. Down again.

He’s going to kiss me.

I’m going to let him.

My fingers rake through his hair, drawing his head down, meeting his eager, pliant mouth.

It settles on mine, lips pressing so tenderly there are no words to describe it—no one has ever kissed me this way. We kiss and kiss and kiss with no tongue, a union of lips and breath and skin. Tiny tastes of each other. Nips.

His mouth pulls at my bottom lip, gently sucking, before it opens, his tongue finally—finally, thank GOD—touching mine, almost timidly. Just enough to make my nerves quiver throughout my entire body.

We stand like this, kissing on my front porch in the cold, until my mouth is swollen—until he backs away, leaving my body instantly cold from the loss of his heat, regarding me in the porch light.

Acts like a gentleman.

“Goodnight, Violet.” He swallows.

I have to force myself to speak. “Goodnight.”

I won’t lie, I’m disappointed when he steps away, backs himself down off the porch, and walks across my lawn, raking a hand through his hair. Yanks open the driver’s side door with a grunt. Guns the engine and backs down out of my driveway, starts down the street.

I wanted him to stay with me.

Instead, I stand here alone, watching as his truck slows, pulls to the shoulder of the road. Flips on his hazards and…sits there, idling.

Very weird.

Curiously, I hold sentry as he does nothing but sit in that big black truck, folding my arms across my chest to ward off the chill, a thick billow of steam rising from my lips with every cold breath.

Inside the pocket of my thick winter jacket, my phone notification chimes.

I reach into my pocket. Slide open the lock screen.



Zeke: Hey.



I look up into the night. His bright red tail lights still glow eerily at the end of my street.



Violet: Hey.

Zeke: How’s it going?



I laugh—what on earth is he doing?



Violet: Good? You?

Zeke: I guess I just wanted to check in to see if you were okay after tonight. Because that’s what friends do, right?



I can’t stop the smiling, and I bite down on my bottom lip.



Violet: That’s exactly what friends do. Thanks Zeke: Hey Vi?

Violet: Hmm?

Zeke: So this is going to sound creepy, but I’m sitting at the end of your street like a damn stalker…if I come back and get you, what are the odds you’ll come to my place?



I stare at that line, reread it twice, fingers hovering above the keypad of my cell. What are the odds you’ll come to my place?

Would I go to his place?

Yes!

I want to do more than taste his lips.

I want to feel the heat from his body over mine. Feel him inside me. Know what his body feels like without the shirt, pants, and clothes.



Zeke: Violet? You still there?

Violet: Yes.



I suck in a deep breath, curls of excitement twisting my stomach into knots, and tap out a reply.



Violet: Yes. If you come back and get me, I’ll go to your place.