Page 8 of Check Me Out

Could the two of us possibly be more different?

Although, maybe we weren’t. Not entirely. Because day-in, day-out, whether working the register or playing the clubs, I had to endure endless smalltalk, idle chitchat about nothing at all. Sports, for instance. Or even worse, the weather. Thisconversation was just the sort of thing I longed for—a navel-gazey, thinky discourse of a concept trotted out and examined from every angle. It was a chat that normally ended up with a waitress refusing to warm up my coffee yet again, or the bartender announcing “last call.”

Not to mention the fact that he’d referred to AndHedonia as “clever.” And not only the name—but the music.

I got jollies just thinking about it.

I leaned in over the table and dropped my voice, like we were sharing a secret. “Showing up on the doorstep of a stranger.... Can’t help but wonder—which internal rule were you following?”

Newton’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “None.”

“Good. Because I’d rather be the exception.”

Even though I’d been angling for it, the kiss caught me by surprise. Forceful. Clumsy. An off-center clash of teeth and a rasp of stubble, wet by a hint of tongue and cooled with a startled intake of breath. Junk mail disturbed by a wayward elbow slid to the floor with a papery rasp and a chair skidded back with a linoleum squeak as we jostled for position. We broke apart, got our bearings, then immediately dove back in for another try.

It was then that I realized the warm tingle playing across my lips was from the chilis, not the kiss. His hand dropped to my knee. A hesitation that might turn into a retreat. But I didn’t let that happen. Instead, I grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer yet.

He moaned into my mouth, softly, not more than a breath, and I clambered out of my chair to straddle one of his knees. I’d given him the chair least likely to collapse, and though it let out a small sound of protest, it held.

I clenched the seat back as I angled my mouth against his for another chili-laced kiss.

8

Newton

I don’t make out on a first date. I was well aware that most guys my age did all that, and more. But never me. Was what we were doing here an exception? Or was it so far out of my realm of possibility, I’d never formed an official stance against it?

Either way, the lack of rules wasn’t scary.

It was freeing.

The kiss itself was awkward—and it was absolutely perfect. I fumbled to slip a hand around Angus but was immediately tangled up in the flannel shirt tied around his waist. With a huff of frustration, I stood us both up and backed him against the kitchen counter, one hand at his hip and the other threading through the hairspray at the nape of his neck.

He smiled against my mouth, then flipped me around, trapping me beside the sink as he rode my thigh and raked his teeth over my lower lip. A rush of need surged straight down to the spot where my fly rubbed up against his jutting hipbone, and I suspected things would go a lot farther than just making out, if that was what I wanted.

This guy I’d only just met—bold and intriguing and way too cool for me—made a small sound in his throat as I drew my thumb along his sharp jawline.

I definitely wanted.

I formed the word “yes” against his mouth, and he eased both hands up the hem of my shirt. The touch of skin on skin was electric—but then some other thing prodded me in the back, and I shook him off with a startled flinch.

Angus disengaged immediately, looking a lot more vulnerable than I imagined he could, lips flushed from kissing. I turned around and spotted the culprit: the can of Happiness. It had toppled onto its side and rolled across a crooked countertop. Nothing more.

“Don’t worry, it’s only—” I picked it up to show him, but then paused, baffled, and gave it a shake and something shifted inside it. “Hold on.” I shook it again. The solidity I’d felt back in the store had been replaced by an ominous slosh, and the can weighed only half as much as it had before. Maybe less.

“Forget about that. It’ll keep.” Angus plucked the can from my grasp…then scowled and gave it a good shake himself. “Huh.”

He turned it around, checking for leaks. But I already knew he wouldn’t find anything.

“Well,” he said, “whatever the deal is, I refuse to be preempted by a can from the closeout rack.” With that, he yanked open a kitchen drawer and pulled out a can opener.

I felt a flash of panic. This can had been present every step of the way—from a conversation piece at the grocery store to an excuse to show up on Angus’s doorstep. I’ve never been onefor superstition. But I also couldn’t bear to let our Happiness escape.

I grabbed for the opener, but Angus didn’t let go. Instead, he used my grip on it to pull me closer. Chest to chest now, I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

9

Angus

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