Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(51)

“I’ve never been kissed.” It was a permission wrapped up in a request, and I held my breath as I waited for his answer.

His eyes caught mine and held them. “How is that even possible?”

I shrugged and looked down, my confidence faltering.

But he touched my chin and lifted it until our eyes met. “Well,” he said softly, “I think I’d like to be the one who crosses that off, too.”

He leaned in, our breath mingling, and then…he kissed me.

For something I’d thought so much about, something I’d anticipated for so many years, I found myself stiff and still and unsure. His lips pressed mine—not too hard, not too soft, wet but not too wet.

Perfectly adequate by all scales I had at my disposal—which, admittedly, weren’t vast.

The kiss was fine, sweet even, if not a little sterile. But the admission in my sinking heart was that there were no fireworks, no marching band, no parting of the heavens or a hallelujah chorus. And, by more normal expectations, there was no spark, no instinctive recognition or undeniable bond between us.

Maybe I’d read too many romance novels to expect anything less than to have my breath stolen and my heart singing promises of forever.

When he pulled away, he smiled that indulgent smile of his, and I smiled back, hoping I looked reassuring as I nestled into his side.

I’d expected magic, and I’d gotten mediocre.

I shouldn’t have been disappointed, but I was.

It had to be due to my complete lack of experience. I had probably been the worst kiss of his life. That was the only explanation because the date was perfect. The company and conversation was perfect. If the kiss really had been lackluster—I was already trying to rewrite history in my mind—it had to be on me and my lack of practice.

I smiled to myself, hoping practice would make that perfect, too.

“So, if you’ve never been kissed, is it safe to assume you’ve never had a boyfriend either?” he asked, his thumb shifting back and forth on my arm.

“I haven’t,” I admitted. “No one’s caught my attention before.”

“I’m the first for that too? It’s dangerous how good that makes me feel.”

I nestled a little closer, smiling up at the stars.

“Think you might want a boyfriend?” The words were cautious, maybe even a little nervous.

“Are you asking me to go steady?” I teased.

A little chuckle escaped him. “I know it’s corny, but the truth is, I really like you, Annie. I don’t want to see anyone else, and I hope you don’t either. On top of the possibility that I could get addicted to checking off your firsts.”

When I leaned away and looked into his eyes, his smile dazzling and his warm hand finding my cheek, there was nothing I could say but yes. And he kissed the word away until it was gone.





13





Take What You Can Get





Greg

Two tickets to the ballet were in the process of burning a hole in my pocket.

Rose had handed them over with a smug smile this morning, and into my back pocket they went along with a healthy helping of that trap that called itself hope.

I’d convinced myself that Will was temporary—a traffic cone, not a cement barrier. He’d declared himself before I was able to, but it was still early enough that I could take another shot.

I tried not to think about what would happen if she committed. Because as much as I hated Will, if he was who she wanted, I wouldn’t stand in her way. He was a punk and an asshole, but if I tried to prove it to Annie, it would be me who was the asshole, not him.

My greatest hope was that it wouldn’t be an issue. I’d take her out, show her what we could be together, and hope she would choose me.

When Annie walked into work with that smile on her face and her arms filled with a giant pink pastry box, that hope multiplied in size by at least five.

“Hey,” she said cheerily as she approached, setting the box on the surface of the bar. “Gotcha something.”

“And it’s not even my birthday.”

She laughed and hopped up onto a stool where she began pulling off her yellow coat and pink gloves. “Go on; open it.”

I spun the box around and flipped the lid open. Inside were two-dozen donuts, stacked at an angle in matching pairs so they could all fit. Little flags on toothpicks noted the names of a dozen donut shops in Annie’s handwriting.

She giggled, bouncing in her seat. “I hated that I couldn’t go with you yesterday, and I thought, What better way to thank you for such a thoughtful gift? So I forced my poor driver to haul me all over Manhattan this morning, and I got two donuts from each place, one for each of us.” She held up her hands and shook them like tambourines. “Ta-da!”

I couldn’t help but laugh—not only at the sheer joy on her face, but at the jazz hands and kindness and sweetness that only Annie could possess.

“This is…” I said as I assessed the spread, my confidence flying. “This is pretty great, Annie. Thank you.”

“No, thank you for bringing me the map.” She leaned on the bar and looked into the box, wetting her lips. “Where should we start? I have to say, Lekker smelled the best. I got these blueberry-lemon things with cream-cheese frosting. These.” She pointed. “We’ve got to go back there. It’s just right around the corner.”