It is fully night now, and we’re plunged into deep shadows. I lean against the pebbly, cold concrete of the restaurant, barely able to make out his features. But I notice his breathing is uneven.
“Are you okay?” I whisper—even though there’s no one around to hear us. The valet is positioned on the other end of the lot, so far away he doesn’t even know we’re here. But something about the shadows, those soothing swoops of darkness I love so much, feels . . . private. Intimate. Like anything louder than a whisper will shatter our bubble.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly—then leans in so his lips are perilously close to my ear.
I want to move my head just a millimeter, so they’ll touch . . .
I also don’t want to move at all.
“I want to kiss you again,” he says—and I flush all over, suddenly unable to move anyway. “Is that okay?”
“Yes,” I manage to breathe out.
I expect him to just go for it, but instead he pulls back, his eyes searching my face in the dark. I can barely make out his gaze, the hint of that imperfect mouth I can’t stop thinking about. I expect it to be tilted up, giving me one of his smiles. But he looks so serious, studying me so intently—like he’s trying to commit every piece of me to memory. He reaches down and touches that bright red strand of hair that won’t stay off my face, running it between his fingertips and then—very gently—tucking it behind my ear. He does all of this so slowly, so deliberately—like he’s getting ready to perform open-heart surgery or handling some extra-rare, crumbling old document.
Like he’s touching something precious.
His hand cups my cheek—again, so very carefully—and I don’t know why my heart is beating so fast, why my mouth is suddenly so dry, why . . . why . . .
We’ve already kissed once. Why do I feel like I’m about to come apart?
He dips his head and takes my mouth with his.
My whole being sighs, nearly melting against the cold wall of the building. He nips at my lower lip, teases my mouth open, strokes my tongue with his . . .
I gasp against him. I feel too hot. I feel too cold. I feel too . . . everything.
His hands slide from my face to my hair, his fingers tangling in the unruly waves. He really seems to love my hair. My knees go all wobbly, and my hands shoot out to grasp his hips, a desperate attempt to keep myself upright. My fingertips brush against the bare skin just underneath his T-shirt, and he makes this sound in the back of his throat that makes me want to . . . to . . .
Oh, I don’t know. I’m so swept up in this kiss, cradled by the shadows, feeling wild and free, consumed by him . . .
I’ve been kissed before. But never like this.
When we finally pull apart, I think it’s because both of us need to fully breathe again.
“I . . . sorry,” he says, his voice husky.
“What for?” I whisper.
“I really wanted to do that again,” he manages.
“Me too,” I say, grinning a little—and hoping he can see it. “And you asked me if it was okay. So what’s the problem?”
“I just thought it would be somewhere more romantic,” he says, chuckling and leaning in to press his forehead to mine. “Like, somewhere worthy of an epic story you could tell your sisters. Not in some weird, shadowy alley next to a strip mall. But I couldn’t wait.”
I run my hands over his hips and up to his chest, trying not to openly freak out about the fact that I’m finally touching those muscles I’ve become so obsessed with.
“I love this alley,” I say. “I could stay here forever. It’s totally epic.”
He laughs again and—reluctantly, I think—pulls back, standing up straight.
“Not forever,” he says. “We need to go inside and see if Grace is here—see if we can complete your actual epic quest.”
“Okay,” I say. And am shocked to find I’d sort of forgotten that’s why we came here in the first place? How could I forget about my quest, my mother? How is he distracting me this much? “But first . . .” I grab the front of his T-shirt with both hands and pull him close again. “Can I kiss you this time? Because I want to do that again, too.”
“A thousand times yes,” he says.
And then, even though I initiate the kiss, I’m swept away all over again.
When we finally break apart and hustle ourselves to the restaurant’s entrance, I have no idea how much time has passed. We could have been in that alley for ten minutes. An hour. A year.
The swinging glass door to Jitlada sports a festive handmade sign that says private party, surrounded by all the other decorative ephemera I noticed earlier. Not only do the lights and beads and notes about specials make the place seem homey and welcoming, but they also block the windows—meaning no one can see the cavalcade of Asian Hollywood royalty swanning about inside.
“You ready?” Henry says, reaching for the door—and I nearly jump out of my skin. His mouth is just so close to my ear again.
I manage to compose myself and nod, and Henry ushers me inside.
I am immediately hit by a raucous wall of noise, roaring laughter and impassioned chatter surrounding me. It’s so overwhelming, I freeze in the doorway, trying to grow accustomed to it all. The place looks like someone’s very beloved tchotchke-stuffed living room, crammed with scuffed, elaborately carved wooden chairs and tables swathed in mismatched bright pink and gold silks. The scent of spicy curry winds its way around every cluster of people, tickling my nose and making my mouth water.
The place is packed full—I guess this is Asian Holly-wood. I can’t help but feel that Belle would be a little disappointed at the lack of opulence, of majesty. Even though I recognize some of the faces sprinkled throughout the crowd, it looks like a pretty normal, no-frills kind of party. Or a massive family gathering.
I don’t see Grace, though, and
