Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)(31)

He tilts his head as if considering that. “True. We know it won’t be that way in the morning. Everything will change, and slush and dirt and honking trucks will take over once again.”

“But at two in the morning, it’s lovely.”

His gaze strays to his phone, as if he’s checking the time—12:09 lights up the screen. “It’s not two yet.” He digs harder into my feet, his eyes returning to mine. “But I’d like it to be.”

As he looks at me, tingles slide down my body. I’d like it to be two in the morning. Two seems like the perfect time—the only time—for what I want. For a stolen hour with this man, for a moment I might regret but I’ll take the chance on anyway because of how he makes me feel.

Like I’m floating.

Like I can do anything.

Like nothing would ever hurt if we crossed the line.

I spend so much of my time striving toward goals, planning for the future. What if I let go for one night? Maybe just once?

My breath catches, but somehow I find the words to keep the night unfolding. “What about you? What do you believe in?” I poke his stomach with my toe.

His hard stomach.

Whoa. Miller has firm abs. “Nice washboard. Been hiding these from me?” I press harder against his stomach.

He grabs my foot and drags my toes over the fabric of the Henley covering his abs. “I’m not hiding them anymore,” he says.

I’m not a foot fetishist, and I don’t think he is either, but I want to thank the good Lord for making toes, since Miller’s using mine to let me cop a feel of his belly.

“I need to add your stomach to my list of beliefs. I definitely believe in your abs now. I’ve seen the light.”

He laughs, tipping his head back, and I sneak a peek at the stubble on his jaw, at his alluring eleven o’clock shadow. That stubble. I want to feel it sliding against my cheek. I want to know its sandpaper scratch.

He looks down at my feet. “I believe that green toenail polish is adorable and sexy. I also believe that you have strangely beautiful feet.”

“You do have a foot fetish,” I whisper in surprise.

“I don’t. I don’t know why your feet are beautiful all of a sudden. They just are.” But he’s not looking at my feet. He’s staring at my face, and my cheeks flush, hot from his gaze.

Have I had too much to drink? I feel tipsy, but I’ve barely touched a drop.

“What else do you believe in?” I ask, because I don’t want to stop. I want us to touch in these little ways, to talk, and to tango mercilessly closer to a risky truth.

“My brothers. Hot chocolate. The good in young people like Jackson and Chloe.” Answers pour out of him like water, his tone shifting to serious. “I believe in music too. I believe it’s the one universal language in the world, and that songs can connect people. When I play and sing, I feel that connection with others. Like you.”

“I believe in that too,” I say, my voice feathery.

He drags a fingertip over the top of my foot, and I nearly cry out in pleasure. How is it possible to be ignited from a finger across my instep?

“I think people are happier when they listen to music. Maybe they love more deeply, or kiss more fervently, or maybe they take someone to bed. I think music helps people to love. I feel like that’s my small contribution to the world,” he adds, and his expression is etched with a new vulnerability.

My heart slams against my rib cage. I love that he feels that way about what he creates.

“I’m happier when I’m listening to music,” I whisper, as Frank Sinatra’s voice fills my head, and Miller moves his hands up my ankle.

“I believe in Skittles too,” he continues, darting back to his playful side again, and I release some of the tightness in my hands. “And ice skating and Donkey Kong. And I definitely believe in these calf muscles you have.” He squeezes my calf, and I wriggle because it tickles. “Where have you been hiding these insane calf muscles?”

“Same place you hid your abs?”

He smiles as he rubs, and I’m right back in this brave new land of lust. I fight like hell to remember why Miller and I are a risk—but after midnight, desire is stronger than reason.

“You feel good like this,” he says as he rubs.

I can hear my pulse hammer; I can feel every heavy and tender beat of my heart. I swallow, and my throat is dry. I’m thirsty, so thirsty for a kiss.

He squeezes my leg, like he’s trying to get my attention. His eyes are etched with contrition. “I believe I’m a fool for not realizing we could sing so well together sooner, and I want to sing with you again. I want to make more music with you,” he says, and it sounds like a desperate plea.

“Don’t stop, then,” I say, and I’m not only answering him. I’m telling him what I want.

“I believe, too, that sometimes lines get blurred,” he says as his hands slide up my leg to my knee.

Movement at the window catches my eye. My pitch rises as I point. “Miller. It’s snowing.”

That’s all it takes. He kneels forward, brushes my hair from my face, and brings his lips to mine. “Let’s pretend it’s two in the morning,” he whispers against my mouth.

His lips sweep over mine, and the world blurs deliciously. As he kisses me, my body turns to honey. I sink into the dizzying sensation of our lips connecting, and I fall into this moment, so wonderful and lush, as his mouth explores mine. He nibbles on the corner of my lips, then kisses more deeply.