Meet Cute(42)

His lips brush over mine and I latch on to his wrists, an anchor in a storm I want to be swept up in. The firm press of his mouth against mine fills me with longing. Daxton’s low groan follows, and then his tongue sweeps my mouth, soft and searching.

I’m falling and floating. Spinning out of control as he angles my head, deepening the kiss. Desire blossoms and takes hold. I want it. Him. And I’m worried this is only happening because we’ve slipped into the past, to a time where the biggest complication in life was getting the best mark.

But I don’t stop it, even if I should.

I give in to the ache of yearning. The explosion of senses; his smell, his taste, the warmth that grows hotter, igniting embers to flame.

One of his hands drops, taking mine with it. I clutch his thigh as his fingers curl around my hip, urging me closer.

The buzz and ding of a phone pierces the hazy cloud of lust, and I pull back, breaking the connection for a moment, but Daxton is right there, crowding my space, his fingers in my hair, twisting in the strands, tugging gently as his lips meet mine again. He nibbles this time, sucks my bottom lip and groans, tongue sweeping out, again and again and again.

But the ping, ping, ping of incoming messages is a bucket of cold water on my sensibility.

I put a palm on his chest, and push. “Is that yours?”

“It’s not important. Just ignore it.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckle, following with a light bite.

I feel it through my entire body, the bolt of lust, the rush of heat between my thighs. Even still, I recognize I’ve complicated so many things with one act of impulsiveness. One kiss that shouldn’t have happened, but did.

And I know I won’t be able to forget it. Not with the way my lips still tingle and my body still hums with his touch.

I look to the patio table, where beads of sweat trickle down the sides of our half-consumed beers. His phone lights up with an incoming message and rumbles closer to the bottles. A woman’s name flashes on the screen.

My throat tightens. Of course he has women calling him on Friday night. I’m sure they’re more than willing to come to him even if he can’t go to them. I’m probably convenient because I’m here and still obviously infatuated and willing.

“I should go.” I stand, adjusting my glasses, embarrassed once again.

Dax rises with me. “What? Why?”

“It’s late. You have other things to do.” I gesture to the phone, still buzzing on the table. I try to get around him, but he steps in front of me, blocking my escape. “Dax, please.” I don’t want to look at him right now. I can’t face what I’ve done. How getting caught up in that kiss compromises this situation in so many ways.

“Kailyn.”

“I need to go home.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you wanted—” I’m still trying to get around him. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine, I should just…you’re under a lot of stress. It’s understandable you’d seek comfort in someone safe.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

I slip around him and head for the door. “I’m glad I could be here to help Emme tonight, and I’m glad I’m a safe person for you, Dax, but this, what just happened, shouldn’t have.”

He doesn’t follow me to the door, but I catch his reflection in the window as I slip my feet into my shoes. One hand is shoved in his pocket while the fingers of his other hand sweep back and forth across his lips, his expression forlorn.

He’s seeking refuge in the past, caught up in a possibility that never existed because his present is so tragic right now. It doesn’t make this any less of a mistake.

It also doesn’t make it any easier for me to get in my car and leave.





Chapter Twelve





Post-Kiss Favors


Kailyn



Since Dax has my cell number, he resorts to texting over the weekend. He makes sure I arrived home safely on Friday night after I bolted from his house, apologizes again for upsetting me, thanks me for helping with Emme, and issues yet another apology.

I’m polite and to the point with my replies, and of course I ask how Emme is doing, but I try to maintain a semiprofessional boundary. Which is difficult to do when I know what it feels like to have his tongue in my mouth.

On Monday I find a box on my desk. Inside is a note from Dax and a set of multicolored pens, exactly like the ones I always used to set out on my desk in class. Every once in a while, when Daxton was sitting behind me in class, he’d lean forward and whisper that his pen wouldn’t work, and he’d ask to borrow one of mine. I always lent him an obnoxious color, like hot pink or lime green. It’s a sweet memory and an even sweeter gesture.

The following morning I receive a phone call from Linda. “Hello, Kailyn Flowers speaking.”

“Kailyn, hello! I’m so glad I was able to get in touch with you.” Her voice has that high, reedy quality that automatically puts me on alert.

“Is everything okay? Is Emme all right?”

“Um, well, that’s what I’m calling about.”

I’m already reaching for my purse, ready to tell Cara to cancel my meetings for the afternoon. “Do I need to come to the school? Should I call Dax?”