I instantly follow his line of thought. “Done it in the library?”
“We’ll add it to the calendar. For next week.” He grins, so naughty and thrilling, my core tightens at the prospect.
He steps closer, slipping his hands under my shirt, around my waist. Ducking his head until his lips brush mine, he says in a husky voice, “Thirty hours.”
“We’re counting down hours now, huh?” I slide a hand around the back of his neck and tug him closer, but he doesn’t budge.
“Hours. Minutes. Seconds,” he whispers into my lips. Just as I close my eyes, waiting for him to capture my mouth, he lifts me onto the table and tickles my sides. I fall back, trying to escape, and he chuckles. “You think I’m gonna give up that easily?”
I wish. If only because he drives me mad with need. Even tormenting me with tickles, my body responds. Nipples budding and heart rate increasing and goosebumps raising on my skin. I never realized how badly waiting would make me desperate for him again.
When I surrender with a torrent of laughter, Spencer finally, finally, kisses me. I link my legs around his waist, pulling myself closer to the warmth of his body, hiking my hips, needing him to slip one of those devilish hands into my jeans. To feel how drenched he’s made me. To paddle me. To imprint me with a mark so clearly Spencer that no one could ever claim I’m not his.
“We have time,” I whisper as he nibbles my neck. “Just real quick…”
“Fuck no, princess.” His laugh rumbles through my chest. “Tomorrow, I’m taking all fucking night with you. Besides, we have a plane to catch.”
I groan, leaning back on my arms. His hands cradle my head, loosening my ponytail, and he kisses me. Deeply. Pressing as close he can, and I press back, needing all of him against me. Locking me to him until I can’t think or feel or smell or taste or hear anything that isn’t him.
Which is why I miss the door open until it’s too late. Until Summer barges in, eyes red and knuckles white around her phone, jaw dropping when she finds me, tangled in Spencer Armstrong’s embrace.
28
Kennedy
“—wish you all the best in your marriage, and with my most sincere regards, I welcome you to our family.”
Spencer covers his mouth.
I pause, lifting my head from my note cards. “Did you just yawn?”
He grunts.
“You definitely yawned. Is it that bad?” I shuffle through my cards, frowning. The bus lurches to a stop at a traffic light, and I almost spill them over my lap.
Spencer yawns again. Though the time on my phone reads early evening, for us, it’s late. After driving to the city, catching our flight, four hours in a plane, and finally landing, Spencer looks ready to crash. We’d caught a shuttle to the hotel serving as Brigid’s venue, since neither of us is old enough to rent a car, and with a twenty-plus minute drive, I’d decided to run my wedding speech by him. Brigid requested all her sisters make a toast.
Spencer picks up a card that had fallen to the floor and hands it back to me. “It’s long.”
“It’s exactly ten minutes. I timed it.”
“Enough time for me to chug a beer,” he runs a hand over his chin. “Maybe two.”
I tap my foot. Read through my notes again.
Spencer sighs, placing a hand on mine to stop my fretful flipping through index cards. “Princess, you used five definitions. Let me give you one: ‘causing weariness through lack of interest’.”
Boring. I pout. Take the stack of cards and erratically slap them against my palm.
Seeing I’m about to complain, Spencer sighs and slumps, though he keeps an arm around the back of my uncomfortable bus seat. His smile is teasing. “Did you make an outline?”
“No,” I lie. Then, “I worked hard on this.”
Researched examples. Practiced between Busy Beans customers. Dutifully penned each and every loving note card.
“You’re getting in your head,” he says. “Relax.”
But I can’t. Even when Spencer massages my neck, warmth suffusing my skin, my mind and my body refuse to calm down. For a multitude of reasons.
Spencer’s about to meet my family. On the eve of the night when we have sex again. And now, apparently, my carefully prepared and lovingly sentimental speech sucks.
But most of all, the thing making me restless?
Summer Prescott knows about us.
I hadn’t been able to talk to her after she found us in the library study room. She’d muttered a quick excuse, grabbed her things, and left, all without addressing the elephant in the room. The bulky, scowling, handsome elephant leaning me back on the table, hands under my shirt and mouth on mine. This, after I told her I’d started sleeping with a guy.
It doesn’t take much to put two and two together. Even for someone who has trouble adding sums.
Summer knows. She knows, and I never had the chance to ask her not to tell.
I keep secrets, I don’t tell them, she once said.
But how do I know that’s true? How do I know this gossip, of me and Spencer, won’t be juicy enough for her not to tell? She has a whole sorority house full of sisters who would no doubt jump at this chance for gossip. What if she tells at least one other person? And then that person passes it on to someone else. On and on until the news reaches Natalie or Rylie or Spencer’s roommates or the newspaper staff, who will then tell—
“Kennedy,” Spencer’s voice cuts into my worrying. He lifts the arm around me, tugs the note cards out of my hand. “No one actually likes speeches. Bet you anything everyone will be wondering when they serve the cake.”
“You bet, huh?” I can’t resist teasing. “Want to add another month?”
“Fuck. No.” He slides a palm on my thigh, dark eyes intent on mine. My stomach flips.
“Keep it short. Two minutes, tops,” he continues. The shuttle pulls
