Fuck. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep telling myself I don’t want him.
Without stopping to think, I take a step closer, stand up on my tip-toes and press my lips to his. He’s caught off-guard and stumbles a little against the shelf behind him. It takes a fraction of a second for him to respond, but when he does…
Oh my God.
His warm lips brush over mine in a soft, gentle kiss, and his hands settle lightly on my waist. There’s a zing through me, a thrill at kissing him finally, at how lovely it is.
And then my thoughts come piling in and I step back, embarrassed.
What the hell is wrong with me? One minute we’re having a perfectly nice conversation then the next I’m throwing myself at him. I cringe as heat sweeps over my cheeks.
“Shit.” I touch my fingertips to my tingling lips, studying the carpet. “I’m so sorry.”
But when I force myself to meet his gaze, he’s looking at me with dark eyes and a sexy smile, shaking his head. “No. Don’t apologize.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Kiss me again.”
25
Oh God. I know I shouldn’t kiss him again, but fuck—I’m only human.
I slide my tongue over my bottom lip, ready to press him up against the bookshelves, when I hear a sound beside us.
“Excuse me, could I just…”
My eyes swivel to see a young woman, gesturing down the aisle beyond us, and I resist the urge to scream. “Oh, yes. Sorry.”
We both turn awkwardly to let her pass, and I take a second to get some air into my lungs. I want so badly to kiss him again, but this woman is hovering nearby now, and—well, I guess we are in public. I can hardly blame her for wanting to browse books in a bookstore. But still.
Michael and I stare at each other for a moment, then he reaches for my basket and hauls it up onto his arm, not taking his eyes off me.
“Come on.” He nods towards the front of the store. “I want to show you something.”
We make our way to the register, my heart still tumbling about in my chest. As Michael heaves my basket up onto the counter, I can barely get my wallet out, I’m buzzing so much from our kiss. I hand my credit card over in a daze as the clerk scans my items.
“Oh, you’re a writer?” She places my writing books into the bag.
“Er, yes,” I mumble, acutely aware of Michael beside me.
“That’s so awesome. I’ve always dreamed of being a writer but never really gotten around to it.” She slides the bag across the counter to me. “Have a great night.”
I take the bag with a faint smile, feeling myself droop. What a timely reminder that I too used to only dream of writing and now I’m making it a reality. And kissing Michael is a sure-fire way to crush that dream, to see it dissolve into dust and scatter into the wind, until I’m right back where I started.
He turns to me as we step back out into the chilly air, pulling his beanie down onto his head and winding a scarf around his neck. While we were in there—for three hours, I now realize—it’s gotten dark, and quite a bit colder. I attempt to pull my coat tighter but I’m struggling with the massive bag of books.
I’m just about to tell Michael I should go when he takes my bag of books to carry it for me—and my heart melts.
Shit. I am in so much trouble.
“You wanted to show me something?” I hear myself ask.
“Yeah, if you’re not in a hurry to leave?” His eyes are bright and excited, and I nod, powerless to walk away.
With my books tucked under his arm, he flags down a passing cab and we climb inside. And I realize too late that it was not a good idea for me to get into a cab with him. The backseat is an even smaller space than the book aisle. I can smell his woodsy cologne and he’s within easy kissing distance. If he says anything even remotely sweet, I’ll lunge at him.
And if he tries to kiss me, I’m done for. I’ll be yanking my dress up my thighs faster than he can pay the driver.
I lean against the window, pressing my warm cheek against the cool glass, praying for strength as we head uptown. We sit in traffic for a while, but Michael doesn’t say anything—and he doesn’t touch me, which is both a relief and an overwhelming disappointment. He just gazes out the window in thought.
When we finally come to a stop, I stumble out of the cab, my head a cyclone of confusion.
No, I’m not confused, I tell myself firmly. I know what I’m doing: being friends with Michael, focusing on my writing, not wishing for another happy ending. We shared one little kiss but it’s over now. Everything is fine.
He gestures down the street with a secret smile. “This way.”
I follow him, intrigued. We turn a corner and that’s when I recognize we’re at Rockefeller Plaza. And as Michael leads me across the Plaza, weaving between tourists who are out despite the cold night air, I see why he’s taken me here. You can’t miss it: the Christmas tree, lit from top to bottom in a dazzling display of twinkling lights, right behind the ice rink.
“Wow,” I breathe as we reach the rink, gazing across at the tree. “It’s stunning.”
Michael sets the bag of books down at his feet and leans on the railing. “Yeah. I thought you might like to see it at night.”
I glance at him, watching as he shivers in the cold air, pulling his beanie down over his ears. He turns to me with a big, boyish smile,
