Page 277 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
He doesn’t give it a second thought, and my finger disappears in his mouth.
He grins when he finishes licking the batter off. “We’re not making another mess. We’ve done enough laundry today.”
I laugh.
The whole room is warmer, and I didn’t realize he turned on the stove until the cake is safely inside.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and fold my arms, eyeing him. “Now what? We wait twenty-five minutes and awkwardly stare at each other from a distance?”
He grins and turns his back to me. When he faces me, he’s holding a CD Player. But not just any CD player, but the Discman he gave me.
“Where—how—did you get that?”
He takes a step toward me. “Natalie gave it to me at the bar. She said you held onto it all these years.”
“I thought I lost it.” How did she get it?
“She told me to talk to you before you convinced yourself to forget me for good.”
My eyes sweep up to his. “I’m so glad you listened.”
He shrugs. “It took a little more convincing, but she got me on track.” He steps closer, eyes glinting the way I know I’m in trouble, but in a good way.
He slides the Discman in his pocket and separates a pair of wire earbuds and hands one to me. The first soft chords of a familiar song plays—our song.
“I recently unravelled to this song under your touch.”
He chuckles. “We played this CD on repeat that year. In all our hiding places. In my truck.” He sucks a breath through his teeth, still inching closer to me. “The making out that happened in that truck.”
I nod, a strange mix of nostalgia and longing pulsing through me. “The places we’d sneak, so no one could find us. The hill on your uncle’s property.”
“I loved that damn hill.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him pull me close.
Our robes brush together. His hand finds the small of my back, and my hand is on his chest, fingers splayed over the steady rise and fall of his breath.
The kitchen feels less like an Airbnb and more like one of those secret places where we’d always felt safe.
We start to move.
Not dancing, not really. Just swaying. Slow, idle circles with our bodies pressing together like we’re one person.
He rests his forehead against mine, letting the past and present fold over us. “I’ve missed this.”
“Me too,” I breathe.
He begins to sway, a slow, fluid motion, guiding me with pressure at my back. Our robes shift with every movement, brushing against each other. The light friction kindles the fire inside me.
“I’ve missed you.” His voice is lower than a whisper.
I smile at him. “Me too.”
He tilts my head, and his kiss is tender and unhurried at first, exploring and teasing while being familiar and incredible.
My hands slide from his chest, and my fingers trace the line of his collarbone. He hums our song softly against my mouth.
There’s no urgency, only a quiet, mutual understanding.
“You’re beautiful.” His words send a rush of warmth through me, and I lean into him, our foreheads touching again.
