Page 77 of Chasing Forever
Lottie
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m pacing around like a teenager crushing on her older brother’s best friend, pretending I’m not waiting for him to show up or checking the clock every two minutes.
I glance at the time again. Eight thirty. This is usually when Brooks comes in. My pulse skips, and I hate how hopeful I feel. Hope has been such a foreign emotion to me for well over a decade that it’s hard to be comfortable with it when it wells up inside me.
To distract myself, I head into the backroom, pretending to check off my to-do list. But then the door chime rings.
I spin back around as if I haven’t been counting the seconds since I got into my vehicle after dinner and messing around in downtown Willowbrook last night. And there he is, strolling in as though he doesn’t have a clue that he’s completely unraveled me. As if he’s oblivious that I’m falling for him.
“How’s my girl this morn?—”
I don’t let him finish. I walk straight over, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him. I kiss him the way I’ve needed to since we walked out of that alley last night. Picking us up right where we left off.
Brooks doesn’t hesitate. He steps us back, his hands settling on my hips, then slipping lower until he lifts me onto the counter as if I weigh nothing. His fingers dig into me just enough to make my breath catch, just enough to say he’s missed me too.
The kiss is slow but full of purpose. A push and pull, a give and take—we’re figuring each other out, but somehow it already feels like second nature.
When he pulls away, I lean forward instinctively, chasing more.
“I’ve been so stupid,” I murmur, brushing my mouth along the scruff on his jaw, willing him to stay right here with me forever.
Because I think I could love him. I push away the fear that chokes the breath from me with that thought. If I love him, I’m handing him the power to destroy me, and the last time I did that with a man, he left me in tatters.
“What are you talking about?” he asks with a low chuckle. His hands trail up and down my thighs as though he can’t bear to not touch me.
And God, I love that. I love the way he touches me. Both like I’m something delicate to be treasured and something he so desperately wants to manhandle.
“All these years you’ve been coming in for coffee, and I’ve been pushing you away. We could have had this.” I motion between us, my voice full of regret. “This is really good.”
I lean in for another kiss because I can’t help it. I want to memorize the way he tastes, the way his breath feels against me.
He meets me halfway, and this kiss is even deeper—sweeter, like a promise. When he finally pulls back, I swear I’m trembling.
His smile is dazzling. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. “Does all this mean I can squeeze another date in?”
I slide off the counter, still breathless, and he helps me down, giving my ass a soft smack as though he knows I’m his.
“What are you thinking?” I head behind the counter to make his coffee, needing something to do with my hands before I start working his utility belt off him.
“I’d like a pottery lesson.”
I freeze for half a second, then reach for the pot. “Um…” I pour his cup slowly, heart thudding. “Let me guess, the Ghost scene?”
“Obviously.”
I grab the creamer and sugar from the fridge and smirk over my shoulder. “Of course.”
“Isn’t that the whole reason you got into pottery?”
I scribble on his cup and turn around to slide it to him, barely containing my smile. “Yes, that’s the entire reason.”
Not that he’s wrong. Every potter’s imagined that scene at least once.
Brooks looks at the cup and frowns a little, curious.
“It was his character’s name. I’m guessing you weren’t paying attention to that movie except for that scene?”
He sips his coffee and licks his bottom lip, and I swear I nearly combust. “Maybe we can watch it together since I didn’t know Sam Wheat was Patrick Swayze’s character. I think one of us has watched it a lot more than the other.” He taps the little time I wrote on the cup. “I’ll be there.”
