The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(46)

I love it.

“Abe?”

“Hmm?”

“If you liked me so much, how could you let your roommate take me out?”

It’s the million-dollar question I didn’t realize was in the back of my mind, one that takes him a few minutes to reply to. I’m patient, waiting while he sits quietly across from me, thinking.

“I don’t know.”

I can see that there’s more coming, so I wait some more.

His lips part. “All I know is that I prayed like hell that first date was going to suck.”

“It did.” I laugh. “He’s pretty awful. Not in a mean way, just…he’s selfish. It’s not necessarily a bad thing—I’m sure there are girls out there who are into assholes, but I’m not one of those girls.” Jack Bartlett will never be my type, not even with his handsome face and fantastic body. “Plus, he wasn’t as tall as it says in his profile.” My eyes roll, but I’m grinning.

“Am I tall enough for you?”

I squint sideways at him. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Maybe we should stand up and measure.”

“All right.”

Abe crosses his legs and rises in one fluid motion, extending his hand down to me; his palm is warm but rough. Calloused and hardworking. Sends shivers down the back of my spine.

We’re face to face but not eye to eye, and I stand ramrod straight in front of him so we can measure our height difference, my hand on the top of my head aiming straight at his chest, resting there.

Landing just at his collarbone.

One whole head taller than I am with flat shoes on.

I don’t dare glance up, but my hand stays put, on his chest, flattening against it all on its own. Palm on the fabric of his soft flannel shirt, the heat from his body—and the beating of his heart—warming my skin.

Abe doesn’t move.

To anyone coming across us…I can’t imagine what we look like, standing here in the aisle, bodies practically touching. Innocently at first.

Always innocently at first…

Then.

Abe pulls back, creating space, his arms reaching behind my head. I can’t see what he’s doing until he produces three thick hardcover books from a top shelf and bends to set them on the floor.

He takes my hand.

Guides me up so I’m standing on top of the makeshift step stool, several inches taller than I was before.

Well. This is innovative.

My chin tips up, directed once again by his fingers, and I swear, my bottom lip trembles a little. Just a bit from both nerves and excitement.

I haven’t been kissed in ages—years, it feels like, though it’s probably only been months. Some drunk guy at the bar hardly counts; it was sloppy and wet and unmemorable.

Okay, maybe not so unmemorable since I’m remembering it now.

Focus on his mouth, Skylar!

His pouty, full mouth.

Abe doesn’t cup my face or run his fingers through my hair—but he doesn’t have to. The energy between us is static. Supercharged.

The chemistry is like nothing I’ve ever felt with anyone.

And to think I almost threw it away.

One heartbeat at a time, our lips slowly touch. It couldn’t be any slower, but it buys me time to memorize this moment to replace any old ones. To lock it away for tonight, when I’m in bed, lying in the dark underneath my covers.

Alone.

When our warm breaths finally mingle, beneath the soft lighting of the secondhand bookshop, Abe slips his other hand around my waist, pulling me in. Soft lips. Gentle. Pressing against mine.

First one corner of my mouth then the other, kissing those tiny divots on either side of my lips.

I want to touch him more, but I’m not sure how. It sucks being twenty-one and this inexperienced and awkward, but that’s my reality and I have to live with it.

No shame in my lack of game.

We’re not making out. We’re kissing and it’s so sweet. His lips taste like coconut lip balm and I could stand like this forever, on this small stack of books, letting him kiss me like this, in this place.

So. Romantic.

We pull back at the same time we hear voices, my hands returning to my sides, but still, only an inch or two separates us.

His grin is lopsided. “See? The perfect height.”

A figure rounds the corner; a wide-eyed woman with a wire basket pauses, unsure how to proceed. Her eyes dart to the floor—to the books beneath my feet—then our flushed faces. The hands dangling at our sides.

The sheepish look on my date’s face.

We’ve been busted.

The woman doesn’t say a word, but it’s obvious we’re in her way—and that she isn’t going to budge from the end of the aisle until we’ve moved.

The woman wants romance novels? We’ll let her get to the romance novels.

I run a hand through my hair, flustered, smoothing down the strands that got mussed when Abe ran his hands over my shoulders. Clear my throat. “Should we find your table? Go sit maybe?”

He helps me down off the stack, offering me his hand even though it’s not at all high. Picks up the books and returns them to their proper places.

Grabs my hand again, tugging gently toward the back of the store.

“Yeah, let’s see if it’s open.”