Page 46 of It's Always Sonny

“Yeah, but I’m filling in to help my best friend. The farm is new to events, so Jane and Tripp need the positive publicity.”

“Like we’re the type to one-star the place.” I plant my hands on the table and lean closer. Her dark eyes drill into mine. “I don’t buy it.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not selling anything.” She leans closer to me, too. Close enough that I can see the tiny freckle on her top lip. I’ve kissed that freckle more times than I can count.

“Liar.”

“Brat.”

“Cheat.”

She scowls, and all the breath expels from my lungs. Shoot. That scowl could launch a thousand ships. My smile stretches from ear to ear.

“What are you smiling at?” she demands. But our faces are still only inches apart. All I’d have to do to kiss her is tip forward. Her body language tells me she wouldn’t stop me, either. Not in the least.

I want to close my eyes, want to lean in those last couple of inches, want our lips to meet and see what reaction they cause.

I want it all with her. I always have.

Her eyes start to flutter closed like she can’t help herself …

Because she can’t help herself.

A memory hits me. We were in a private study room in the library freshman year, studying for finals. It was near the end of our first semester on campus and our first semester dating, and we were still in that “new love” stage, though neither of us had said it yet. We’d been at her apartment, but she made us go to the library because she said she couldn’t trust me to focus when we were at her apartment.

But she really meant her, and we both knew it.

Anytime I did anything—tickle her hair absentmindedly while I read, bump my knee into hers, steal a glance—she pounced. She would practically jump on me and start kissing, and, as a red-blooded male, I gladly obliged.

Then, just as abruptly as she’d started, she’d throw herself away, sit back down, and glare at me.

“Stop!” she said more than once.

“What?” I laughed. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re flirting.”

“I’m not flirting. I’m studying. I can stop touching you, if you need.”

“I need. Stop.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Ten minutes later, I leaned back in my chair and stretched, putting my arms back behind my head. I heard her drop her book and pen, and I barely managed to brace myself before she jumped into my lap. I laughed as she kissed my jaw. “What did I do now?”

“It’s your lats. You can’t just show them off like that.”

“I’m wearing a sweatshirt,” I said, smiling while she ran kisses from my chin up to my ear.

“Then it’s you. I can’t control myself when you’re around. You’re … you’re like catnip.”

“I do love cats.”

“Why can’t I control myself when I’m with you?”

The question wasn’t flirty as much as … worried.

She may have been worried, but I took it as a compliment. I loved how attracted to me she was. I loved how easily I could get her attention. And when she pushed back or tried to focus on something else, it became a game to see how long she could hold out.

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