Page 72 of Houston, We Have a Problem
“You don’t know that I’m deathly afraid of bees and have never been stung so I don’t know if I’m allergic. And I really am afraid of spiders. Not so much of socks. You already know everything else worth knowing.”
Though his fingers begin a distracting dance across my back and threaten to put me to sleep, I do my best to stay focused. “That’s not true. There are a lot of things I don’t know. Like, what’s your favorite movie?”
“Field of Dreams.”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t judge.”
“When did you give up the astronaut dream?”
“When I realized I was bad at math but good at baseball. Next question.”
Just like on the porch last week, we talk for hours. About everything. Movies, music, food, embarrassing childhood memories and our best friends growing up. Houston tells me all about his mom and how she was the strongest person he’s ever known, even though he didn’t get to know her for long before she died. I tell him about my sister and how excited she is to be aphysical therapist and always has been, and I tell him about the way my mom is always looking out for other people.
It doesn’t matter if the topics are inconsequential or significant—talking to Houston is so easy, like we inherently trust each other with everything, no matter how much it means to us.
I don’t think there’s ever a moment that Houston isn’t actively touching me, whether it’s rubbing his thumb along mine or massaging my neck with his strong fingers. Sometimes he runs his palm up and down my arm, and at one point he pulls the scrunchie out of my hair and runs his fingers through it, probably making it an utter mess but I don’t even care. He’s so good at making himself present that I enjoy every second of being in this backyard, to the point that I don’t want to leave and go back to real life.
But when Houston pauses in telling a story of him and Brooklyn going trick-or-treating without telling Chad and says, “You should probably go to bed, Darce,” I know he’s right. I’m falling asleep in his arms, and if I let myself do that, I’m going to want to do it again and again.
Still, I groan and hide my face in his shoulder. “How are you not tired?”
“The curse of constantly being on the road. I never fall asleep easily.”
“Just give me, like, five more minutes.”
He laughs, and the sound echoes through his chest. “I don’t think you realize how tempted I am to let you fall asleep and keep you here all night,” he says, brushing my hair away from my face with his whole hand. “But if I don’t walk you to your door, how am I going to kiss you goodnight?”
That wakes me right up. “Oh. Yeah. Cool.” And I’ve already made things awkward.Great.
As I sit up, immediately missing his body warmth, I haphazardly wrap a blanket around myself and try to ignore the fact that it’s twisted at my back. I can do this. Not be awkward. It’s not my first kiss, and it’s not like I don’t know if he wants it. I’m not even usually this flustered by the idea of kissing someone, and yet as I struggle to my feet while clinging to this stupid blanket, I am terrified.
What is Houston going to think? Am I going to be good at it? He’s had so much experience, and the last time I kissed a guy was before I became Tamlin. Ugh, has it really been more than two years? That means I’m out of practice, and I’m going to be terrible at it, and I’m walking to the door without realizing it until Houston laughs and catches up to me, pulling me to a stop and wrapping me up in a hug from behind.
“You don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to,” he says, his voice low and rough. “But I hope you do.” I expect him to kiss my neck or cheek—he has perfect access with the way he leans his head over my shoulder—but instead he loosens his hold, giving me a chance to escape if I want to.
Why in the world would I want that? I love that he’s giving me this control, and it’s enough to kick my insecurities to the curb as I spin in his arms and press my lips to his. But he accepts my offering with less enthusiasm than I would have expected after all the build-up to it tonight. It’s like he’s afraid to truly kiss me.
It’s short and sweet andabsolutely not enough. A little moan escapes me, a cry for more, and Houston responds, capturing my mouth again, this time with more eagerness. His hands find my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks as he pulls me closer. He’s so gentle, but I can feel his restraint slipping the longer he explores my lips. His hands slide down, painstakingly slow as he touches my shoulders, my arms, my wrists and fingers, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Then they findmy hips, tugging me against his body as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss in a delicious show of command that I don’t want to fight because I’m always the one who has to make things happen. I surrender, letting him take charge of this moment as I get lost in his kiss.
I’ve wanted to be a sports journalist since my first high school baseball game, when I heard the announcer make several comments about me when I was at bat the first time. Not because of my skill but because I was a girl among boys. An outsider. A gimmick to bring attention to our team. I shut him up when I hit a home run, but I decided that night that the world of sports needed more women. More people who will praise an athlete’s talents and perseverance no matter their gender or background. I love my job, and I love that I might have a chance to bring light and happiness to a judgmental sphere of media. I am on the cusp of running my own division and having the power to focus only on the good things, and it’s like all of my dreams are within reach.
But here, kissing Houston Briggs, I’m thinking about giving that all up. When the man said he wanted to live deliberately, he clearly meant it, and there is nothing impulsive about the way he kisses me. Every touch, every taste, means something, and I would give anything to learn everything he wants to say. Who needs a dream job when they can have a man like this?
He breaks away first, taking a full step back as his gaze burns through me. “Sleep,” he rasps, stuffing his hand into his hair. I’m pretty sure I’ve already mussed it up plenty on my own, and his hair is a wild mess. As he watches me admire my handiwork with what I’m sure is a slightly crazed and dazed smile, Houston groans and comes back in, this time kissing me frantically, like he can’t get enough. I’m not angry about it in the slightest, and I badly want to see Houston when he drops allinhibitions. I match his eagerness with my own, grabbing onto anything I can to keep him close.
But then he pulls away again, looking pained.
With one hand still hooked onto the collar of his t-shirt, I press the other hand to my mouth, as if that might stop me from kissing him again. Mostly I can’t get over how absolutely perfect it feels to kiss him. It’s like we were destined to be together, designed to fill in the gaps of the other person.
He laughs, showing off his dimples as he covers my hand with his own. “Thanks for that. And goodnight, Darcy.” This time he kisses my forehead, so tenderly that I might cry. How am I supposed to leave him behind?
I only make it one shaky step inside the dark dining room of my side of the house when he says, “What are you doing tomorrow?” He leans on my door frame, looking way too attractive.
I grin. “You mean you’re not sick of me yet?”
He answers with a quick kiss that leaves me breathless. The man absolutely knows what he’s doing.
