Page 248 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
How is he thinking about cornbread?
I retract my hand, but he catches it. “Not because I don’t want to kiss you.”
My breath snags in my chest.
“I want to be clear with you. All I’ve wanted to do since I walked away from you is kiss you. Hold you. Make love to you.” He cups the side of my face, drawing my lips close enough to graze his. “But I also missed all the times we spent together, talking, laughing, and eating.”
I’ve missed them too. But the words don’t come out.
“I need a minute just to see you, watch you, listen to you,” he pauses. “Feed you.”
“Feed me?” I choke.
“Yeah, I like that idea.” His voice is so damn husky. “And lick food off your lip.” His tongue darts out and grazes my lower lip. “That’s a promise.”
And he’s gone. Sitting back and digging into the picnic basket, leaving me breathless again and all hot and bothered.
“Hungry?” He grins as he passes me a plate.
“You’re such a tease.” I snatch the plate.
He chuckles, pulling the cork from the wine bottle with a soft pop.
For someone who is insistent on not touching me, he takes every opportunity to do just that.
He pours the wine, and as he hands me a glass, his fingers brush mine. He eases a slice of cornbread on my plate, his fingers finding mine under the edge of the plate, and holding it there for a beat. Long enough to make me debate mounting him right here for the ride of his life.
Then he cracks open a small jar of creamy coleslaw, and as he spoons a portion beside the cornbread, his fingers skim mine again. Slower, like he’s testing how much electricity he can build with just a touch.
It’s a dynamite level.
“You’re doing that on purpose.” I look at him over the rim of my wine glass.
“Doing what?” The crooked smile tugging at his mouth betrays him.
Each simple contact sends warmth spiralling through me.
He unscrews the lid off a glass jar of honey—thick, golden, and almost glowing in the filtered sunlight. He dips a spoon in slowly, letting it swirl until it catches a heavy ribbon of the sticky syrup.
“Now the real magic.” His voice is low and warm.
He leans forward and holds the spoon just above my slice of cornbread. We watch the honey cascade down in a slow, glistening stream. The sweet scent hits me immediately, mixing in with everything that is Hart.
As he moves the spoon across my plate, a drop lands on the side of my index finger.
“Oops.”
My lips part. “Oops?”
“My hand slipped.”
“Uh-huh.”
His gaze drops to my finger, and then flicks back to my face. Quiet. He lifts my hand—slowly and deliberately—and brushes his thumb across my wrist, warm and steady.
The action has me trembling.
Without breaking eye contact, he bends forward and kisses the drop of honey.
