Kiss and Don't Tell(52)

“Okay,” Pacey says, sounding skeptical.

“And do you know what I saw?”

“What?”

“That trophy. Right there, in his living room, on the mantle, plain as day. He still has it.”

“Seriously?” Pacey laughs.

“Yup, and after I saw that, I thought I had no other choice than to pack up, head to Banff . . . and steal it.”

Pacey pauses his wide stride on the sidewalk and turns toward me, humor written all over his face. “Wait, you drove over eleven hours, to a foreign country—”

“It’s Canada.”

“Doesn’t matter, you drove to a foreign country—to steal a trophy from your estranged uncle?”

“Yup.” I smile widely. “My mom deserves that trophy. It’s hers. And I’m going to get it for her.”

“Wow,” Pacey says and then chuckles. “That . . . Jesus, that makes me like you so much fucking more.”

“My crazy makes you like me more?”

“Yeah, in fact it does.”

I laugh and add, “For a brief moment, when Katherine was telling me all the things that could happen to a single girl on a trip by herself, I debated coming, but I just felt as though I couldn’t move forward with saying goodbye to my mom without giving her the justice she deserves, you know?”

He nods. “Yeah, I would probably feel the same way.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re a good person, Winnie.”

“Even if it means bamboozling my uncle?”

“Yeah, because you know it would mean something to your mom.”

“It would. Thank you for the validation,” I say as we get to his car.

He opens the door for me and helps me in, but he doesn’t shut the door. Instead, he lifts my chin and looks me in the eyes. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

“It was easy to share with you, Pacey.”

His eyes fall to my lips, and my breath catches in my chest as I wait with anticipation for him to lean in and claim my lips like I wish he would.

His tongue swipes his bottom lip and I mirror the action. He leans in and I still my breath, waiting.

I want him to kiss me. I want to see if this electricity bouncing between us is real. I want to see if he’d claim me like I think he would with those powerfully strong hands.

My heart beats in my throat, anticipation rolling through my stomach.

Just a little farther, just close that space . . . that’s all it would take.

I mentally urge myself to reach out for him, to make the move he seems hesitant about, but before I can, he pulls back and closes the door. Disappointment washes over me, but then again, if Pacey were to kiss me, I doubt it would be in a parking lot. Would he pick somewhere else to make it more of a memorable moment? Something special? Is that what I want after so many years without romance in my life?

Something special.

He places our bags in the frunk—front trunk—and then settles into the driver’s seat. He punches in his code and then pulls forward through the parking spot in front of us while placing his hand on my thigh.

A thrilling chill races up my leg and settles in the pit of my stomach as I glance down at his hand resting on my leg. It might not be a kiss, but I’ll take it. Josh never did anything like this, not even when we were younger. He’d hold my hand in the car, but possessively hold me like this? Not so much.

This is why I feel so much around Pacey. It’s the little things. Him listening. Him teasing. Him choosing the exact right moment to show his claim. Surprisingly, and I don’t know whether it’s just the passage of time, but he makes me feel more alive than Josh ever did. Pacey thrills me, and that scares me, because what’s going to happen when I leave? Will he want to see me again? Will he want to exchange phone numbers? Or will he just want to go our separate ways?

“So, when are you going to go see your uncle?”

“I need to get my car towed out of the ditch first. Once that happens, I’ll figure out my plan of attack.”

His brow creases. “Can you do me a favor?”

“You’ve done so much for me. Of course I would do you a favor.”

“Good.” He shifts in his seat but keeps his hand on my thigh. “Can you take out your phone and send a text?”

“Uh . . . okay,” I say, confused. I retrieve my phone from my purse and open a new text message. “Who am I sending this to?” He rattles off a phone number and I type it in. “Now what?”

“Type ‘hello’ and send it.”

Unsure where he’s going with this, I do as I’m told. Almost instantly, his phone lights up on the center console, where it’s charging.

“Did you just give me your phone number?” I ask like a giddy girl.

“I did. Now if you try to ditch me, I at least have a way to stalk you.”

“Ditch you, like . . . at the gondola?” I ask with a laugh.

But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he grows more serious. “No, when your car is free. I don’t trust that you won’t just take off. Hell, I don’t even know your last name. I feel as though you’re blowing in the wind, ready to be freed, and I have no way of catching you when you’re released.”

“I would never leave without saying bye. Never, Pacey.”