Puddin'(93)

“Whoa. If the whole team is half as limber, I think the Shamrocks might be more athletic than the basketball and football teams combined.”

I throw my hands up. “This is what I’ve been saying for years!”

He nods. “Teach me something.”

“Seriously?”

“Hell yeah!” He stands up and holds a hand out for me, pulling me up from the splits with one quick yank.

“Okay. I’ll teach you how to do those kicks,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No way. I can’t kick that high.”

I shake my head. “Kicking high is impressive, but it’s about kicking in unison.” I start pushing on the coffee table. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

He comes along beside me and helps push the table to the wall.

“Okay!” I take his arm and loop it around the back of my waist. His hand curls around the front of my stomach. My breath hitches.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Perfect.” I cross my arm behind his.

He gasps. “I’m ticklish. Embarrassingly ticklish, actually.”

“Note to self.” I smirk. “Okay, so just kick straight out from your hips. We’ll save the fancy fan kicks for later.”

He kicks out clumsily.

“Keep your leg straight,” I say. “But your support leg should be bent a little.”

He tries again.

“Better!”

I kick with him a few times as we alternate. He smells like boy deodorant and sour-cream chips. And somehow, I’m really into it. Boys are straight-up sorcery.

“So you’ve got straight kicks,” I say. “Let’s try changing directions. It’s just a matter of rotating your hips.”

Mitch fumbles a bit as he tries to change kick directions without steadying himself or taking an extra step.

After a while, he collapses onto the couch, a little out of breath, and I plop down beside him.

“That wasn’t so bad!” I say.

“Well, if you count not bad as completely forgetting what the purpose of feet are, I guess I did okay.”

“Let’s take a break from all things dance.” I use the remote to flip through the channels until settling on a marathon of Shark Tank reruns.

“This show is awful.” Mitch shakes his head. “These people come on this show with these awful ideas that they’ve like invested every penny they’ve ever made in, and then that awful bald dude just shuts them down.”

“I love this show. And to be fair,” I say, “that’s not always what happens. Some of these people become millionaires!”

“But most of them leave rejected and knowing they’ve wasted tons of money and energy on a dumb idea like swimsuits for cats.”

“You know,” I tell him, “the idea that cats hate water is a very harmful stereotype about cats, and I reject that.”

He laughs. “I just hate watching people be embarrassed or lose out on something they’d really thrown themselves all in on.”

“I kind of like it. There’s just something about watching other people fail.”

He turns to me but says nothing.

“You’re looking at me like I’m a monster. I’m not a monster, I swear! But we’re all scared of failure, right? Isn’t it comforting to know it happens to everyone?”

“And for some people, on national television.”

I smile. “Well, that’s their gamble. Not mine.”

“Gamble, huh?” he asks, his voice lower now with his gaze fixed on me.

I swallow, but it comes out like a loud gulp.

He leans toward me, not breaking eye contact. “What kind of odds would a guy have if he asked to kiss you?”

I take a deep breath. “I can’t make any promises. But I think the odds would be good.”

His body inches closer to mine as he stretches his arm along the back of the couch. “Still good?” he asks.

I should probably let the moment play out a bit more. But I’ve wanted to kiss him since that day under the bleachers, and I’ve been patient long enough. I don’t wait for him to lean in any farther. I kiss him.

The kiss goes from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. I pop up onto my knees on the couch and pull his face to meet mine. At first, he lets me take the lead and waits for me to initiate each new touch or deepening of our kiss, but soon he drops the gentleman act and pulls me closer to him.

My whole body is full of heat, and I am lost in this moment. Which is why I gasp and jump back almost a whole foot when my mom and sister come in through the back door.

“We’re home!” my mom calls.

Mitch and I look at each other and share a moment of exhilarated panic. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips.

Kyla plops down between us. “Why are y’all out of breath?” she asks. “Were you running?”

“Yup,” I tell her. My eyes are locked with Mitch’s over her head. “Just went for a quick run.”

She grabs the remote from the floor. “Mama said the Shamrocks are on soon.”

“Any minute,” Mama says as she settles into Keith’s recliner. She turns to me. “Keith’s cousin and his wife are in town tonight.”

“The rodeo-clown cousin or the accountant cousin?” I ask.