Page 63 of Spring Tide

“Thank you.”

She’s quiet for a few long moments, then, “Luca?”

“Yes, Harper.”

“I don’t know if I can fall asleep in this storm.”

I reposition onto my right side, kicking out the pillows as I prop myself on one elbow. “I gathered that.”

“Sorry to keep you up.” She shifts onto her side as well. It’s nearly pitch-black in the room now, but I can still see the faint outline of her facial features—the gentle slope of her nose, the curved bow of her lips. It’s difficult to make out her freckles in this light, but I can surely imagine them.

“It’s fine,” I whisper. “I don’t think I can fall asleep, either.”

“Maybe we should play a game, then.”

“What kind of game?”

“How about two truths and a lie?”

“You start.”

“Okay.” She nibbles on her bottom lip as she contemplates a response. “I’m majoring in sports medicine. I’ve always loved the beach. And earlier, when I felt your lips press against my hair, I wish you would’ve just kissed me for real.”

My mind is a buzzing mess of static. My heart, a pounding arrhythmia inside my ears. “You used to hate sand.”

“I did.”

“So the beach ...”

“I used to hate that, too.” Her hand reaches for mine under the covers. “You know you could still kiss me now ... if you wanted to.”

Desire burns a hot coil inside my gut. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

My thoughts are racing, but my mind is blank. It’s difficult to conjure up a reasonable excuse. All I know is that I’m Luca and she’s Harper and we don’t fit together, despite what I may be feeling right now.

“There are ... so many reasons.”

“Is it because you don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that.”

I want to. Of course I fucking want to.

“Luca, when was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?”

“I can’t even remember how long it’s been.”

“Then take a chance.” She presses her thumb against my palm, rubbing small circles directly against the center. “Right now. Kiss me just because you want to. Forget all the silly reasons why you think you shouldn’t.”

I release her hand, snaking my own behind her head. She shifts a half breath closer, and my fingers tangle into the damp curls at the nape of her neck.

“I don’t want to keep begging you, but I might just be willing to.”

“You don’t need to beg me,” I murmur. “Not now, not ever.”

I release one last unsteady breath, shaking all remaining shreds of doubt from my brain. Then, slowly, with the smell of peaches filling the room and the sound of rain pelting against the window, I press my lips to hers.

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