“We can’t keep meeting like this.”
“You’re the one who followed me here.”
He steps closer, something small clasped in his hand. “So I did.” The sweet, earthy scent of him blends with the trees and the flowers and the summer air, and for a moment I think I might need to lie down. Just right here in the dirt. “Rumor in the kitchen is that you de-greenified the bride’s hair.”
“All in a day’s work. And it was more Asher than me.”
“Still. For such a big wedding, it’s been a shockingly crisis-free one. The brides knew exactly what they wanted. We don’t always get that.”
“You really like doing this,” I say. “After all these years. You still love weddings.”
“You don’t?”
At the beginning of the summer, I was jealous—of him, of Julia, of my sister, of everyone who seemed to have their lives figured out. Now I just feel lost. Everyone is moving ahead and moving on, so solid about their chosen paths, and I’m still wondering where I fit.
Part of me wants to tell him how I feel about B+B, and while it would be easier than earlier in the summer, this isn’t the right place. I’m not getting sappy about Kaci and Mariana—it just wouldn’t be respectful.
“What we should really be talking about,” I say, because a subject change is always easier than honesty, “is why you followed me here.”
My words hit him in a way I didn’t anticipate. His eyebrows jump to his hairline, his dark eyes widening. “Shit—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just wanted to talk to you alone, and there were all those people, and…”
I cut him off with a laugh. “Relax. I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“Okay. Because I actually did have a reason. I brought you something.” He unwraps a pastel-pink macaron, the loveliest little dessert I’ve ever seen. Kaci and Mariana did macarons instead of a cake, an impressive tower of them. He used to do this all the time, save me desserts, and it endeared him to me so much. Now it makes me want to press my mouth to the corner of his lips where his half smile starts.
“That’s adorable.”
“I was going for delicious, but I’ll take it.” He holds the macaron out to me, and it looks so delicate I’m almost afraid to grab it for fear of breaking it.
“Are they hard to make?” Dear god, can I stop saying the word “hard”?
“In theory, no. But they’re tough to master. They’re extremely temperamental, really sensitive to moisture in the air. So you could follow the recipe exactly, and they could still be a disaster. But when you finally get them right, the perfect crunch to the shell and the lightness of the filling, they’re heavenly.”
I bite into it, and it’s at once soft and crisp and sweet and tart. “Oh my god, that’s perfect. Grapefruit?”
He watches me while I’m eating, like he can’t relax until he has my honest opinion. “Yeah? You like it?”
“Yes. So much.” I take another nibble. “But everyone’s about to eat them. Can’t really make any changes now.”
“I don’t care about everyone.”
And damn it, I’m weak. And woozy. And alone in this shaded grove with a boy who fed me dessert and can help calm some of my anxiety, even just for a bit.
So I grab his vest and tug him the last few inches to me. His mouth lands on mine in a smirk, and he is sugar and salt and heat, warming me up faster than the sun. His lips are familiar, but the kiss is more intense than Saturday. Firm. Insistent. I match each slide of his mouth, each stroke of his tongue as one of his hands moves to my hair, the other to my hip. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep standing. When I free one hand to reach behind me and find a tree trunk, I let my back meet the bark, and yes, that’s much better.
More, I tell him with the bite of my teeth. Absolutely, he replies with a hand pressed to the tree above my head. His body is flush against mine now, taut muscles and solid curves. The weight of him is enough to make me dizzy. I reach around to his back, his skin hot beneath starched fabric, as he lifts his lips to plant a kiss at the corner of my mouth. Along my jawline. Down my neck.
“Did you really need this buttoned all the way to the top?” he drawls against my throat.
I might faint. “My parents—they want us to look professional.”
“Is that how we’re going to look when we go back out there?” he asks, mouth tracing my collarbone. His teeth snag on my top button. “Professional?”
Slowly, he pulls back, and his gaze on mine is molten, like nothing I’ve seen from him before. Then, ever so gently, he flicks the button open with his thumb. One, then another.
“Are you trying to kill me?” I’m distantly aware of how labored my breaths sound. I’d be self-conscious if his chest weren’t rising and falling at the same speed.
A laugh that creases the skin around his eyes. God, that’s cute. “Is it working?”
“Yes. But you’ll have to explain to everyone how it happened.”
He’s still laughing when he lowers his mouth to my newly exposed skin. Just an extra two inches, but it feels like he’s ignited all my nerve endings. Not wanting to be outdone, I push my hips against his, drawing this beautiful groan from his throat. The things that sound does to me… Yeah, we should probably stop.
I lay my palm on his chest. “I have to get back.”
Another groan, this one laced with frustration. I know, I want to tell him. Me too.
I volunteer to head back first—since he’s, uh, not quite ready—and before I do, he pulls me close one more time and kisses my forehead. A soft sweep of his lips.
Somehow, that’s
