Page 75 of On the Line

Waiting by the curb, outside my building complex, I fix my dress for the fifteenth time while I wait for Ozzy to pick me up.

I’m a ball of nerves

It’s late Sunday morning, and we’re heading to the Fine Arts Museum.

He’d asked me if I wanted to go yesterday before I left Orso. There was a slight blush on his face while he waited for my answer, seemingly nervous about my response as if I wouldn’t jump at the chance to hang out with him. Because the answer is always yes.

Aside from work, I’ve barely seen Ozzy since he showed up in the middle of the night last Tuesday. Even during service, he's looked distracted, subdued, and less buoyant than usual.

We’re still pretending nothing is going on between us in front of the Orso staff, and the secret is starting to itch like a bad rash. Especially when I catch him with a thousand-yard stare mid-shift, and I can’t do anything about it.

When we manage to find hidden corners of the restaurant to paw at each other, he reassures me in between kisses that take my breath away that he’s fine, just busy.

I don’t pry.

But when I’m alone, I overthink.

What’s he doing …

Who’s he with …

It’s left me on edge, and now I’m smoothing my dress, fixing my hair and reapplying my peach lip gloss as if we’ve never spent time alone together—like I’m trying to impress him.

Who am I kidding? Of course, I’m trying to impress him.

When I see his car appear down the street, my stomach flips and I press my lips together in anticipation. Parking in front of me, he leans down closer to the steering wheel to look at me through the open passenger window, white t-shirt rolled up his biceps like a 50s greaser. His grin is cocky and my stomach does another flip. “Hey cutie, what are you doing standing alone on the curb like that? Need a ride somewhere?”

I snort a laugh and roll my eyes. “Maybe,” I say, playing along while leaning into the window, arms crossed. “This boy promised to bring me to the museum. But I guess he’s running late.”

He hums in concern. “Thatboydoesn’t sound like a keeper if he leaves a pretty thing like you waiting.”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking at him with a coy smile. “I kind of like him.”

He raises an eyebrow, his voice dropping an octave. “Oh, do you now?”

I nod while I get in, now a little more serious as I watch Ozzy’s eyes darken.

“Come here,” he rasps.

Reaching over, he pulls me toward him by the back of my neck, and shivers snake down my spine at his touch. His lips are warm. They taste like unabashed pleasure. I tug on the bottom one and he groans into my mouth, his grip tightening on my nape.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he says heatedly against my lips before deepening the kiss. His tone is so serious that I almost ruin the moment. I almost tell him that he shouldn’t be missing me. That we saw each other last night at work. Something to tamper the gravity I hear in his words, because something about it scares me.

Instead, I lean even closer and give in to the same feeling, my lips as hungry as his. “I’ve missed you too.” My voice sounds desperate, needy, but I don’t care, not when Ozzy’s kissing me like this. Not when his breath is hot against my lips, and his hand is sliding up my thigh. Not when time has slowed down, wrapping us in a stasis bubble full of this … this addictiveneedwe have for one another.

Eventually, we pull away, keeping our faces close to one another, catching our breath, our gazes magnetized. Ozzy quirks a smile, settling back into the driver’s seat.

“Now let’s go see some paintings,” he says with an upbeat tone, pulling into the street and putting on some music, acting as if he didn’t shift my entire world on its axis with just that one kiss. He keeps his hand on my thigh, and I place mine over his, giving it a little squeeze.

The music is loud enough that we don’t need to carry a conversation, so I fall silent, chewing on my lip, losing myself in thought while I look out the window.

Because suddenly there’s only one thought bouncing around in my head …

I don’t thinkjust friendsis supposed to make me feel like this.

On our wayinto the museum, Ozzy takes my hand in his. My gaze falls on his nails, painted a light purple. “Nice nails,” I say offhandedly.

He raises his free hand up as if studying them. “Thanks,” he says with a laugh, dropping his hand back down. “Soph painted them.”

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