Page 61 of Catching Mr. Right

Locking my arm around her waist, I pull her between me and the wall. Her skin is hot and damp from dancing. Her dress clings to her curves, iridescent and glittery. Pale bangs hang like a wave across one eye, and I push them out of the way so I can stare into those pretty greens. Was I blinded? Am I still? Mandy Pearce is so dazzling that I can’t see anything but her when she’s in front of me. I ache to hold onto that bright spark she lights inside me when she’s in my arms. In my bed. In my life.

“Are you okay?” She repeats herself, touching my face much like she did the first time I forgot to be surly with her. She’d surprised us both. Taken my breath away. Just like she does now. She may as well be a lightning strike.

“Je suis amoureux de toi.” I exhale the words like a prayer.

“What?” She stares up at me with wide eyes that crinkle around the corners. “What does that mean?”

“N-nothing.” I brush off her curiosity with a shake of my head. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t even know you knew another language.”

“French,” I say. “From my years abroad.”

“In Paris,” she corrects. “When you were actually happy. Do you think I would have liked that, Cas?”

“I don’t know.” Funny how these last few weeks I suspect I wasn’t as miserable as she makes me sound. “But I would have liked you. I like you now. I suspect I always will.”

“That’s good,” she says. “Because I want to be your friend. I want you to call me when you’re on the road with Soldier. I want you to text me, or email me, or send smoke signals.”

“Friends? That’s what you want?”

“Uh-huh.”

I study her face, searching for something. A spark, an inkling that she’s holding back on me, but Mandy Pearce doesn’t hold back. She’s insufferable with the way she puts her thoughts into words. I clear my throat. “You were looking for me. You need something.”

“I do. Yes.” She swallows and I want to chase that supple movement of muscles with my mouth. “You think I’m wrong, don’t you? Is that what you just said? Tell me what it means. Je suis amo—”

“Does it matter?” Because if it matters—

“No, I guess not.” She lifts a shoulder and drops it as she glances at our feet. We’re toe to toe, but we couldn’t be further apart. “It’s time to break up, Cas.”

“Is it?” When it’s the last thing I want to do.

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