Page 23 of Boiling Point
I kissed her, reckless and terrified, still half convinced she’d wrench away in horror or disbelief. Instead, she wound her arms around my neck and pressed into me with a fervor that made myhead spin. It was all the invitation I needed. The flimsy lines I’d drawn between us dissolved entirely.
She leaned into the kiss, her lips soft and eager beneath mine. The certainty of her response obliterated every hesitation. The world around us—icy air, muted light, rushing water—collapsed inward until there was nothing but this impossible moment.
She traced the rough edge of my jaw, as if memorizing this fragile transgression. My restraint shattered. I pulled her closer still, deepening the kiss with an urgency born of uncertainty and longing.
It was madness. It was chaos. It was perfect.
Chapter 10
Gabrielle
“So what made you turn vegetarian?” Cal asked as he perused his scratched-up laminated menu.
“A streak of rebellion when I was eleven,” I answered. The meat-free options at Tia Maria’s Mexican Cantina were sparse, but I settled on a veggie quesadilla.
Cal glanced up at me over the top of his menu. “You can’t just leave it there. Tell the story.”
“It’s not much of a story,” I said, watching his lips curve into a knowing smile—the same one that had undone me so thoroughly by the creek. “There was some epic battle between Dad and me. I can’t remember what it was about now, but it seemed important at the time.”
The restaurant was worn but welcoming—a hole-in-the-wall joint with cracked vinyl booths and strings of chili pepper lights dangling haphazardly from the ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of cumin and sizzling meat, while laughter and the clatter of plates bounced off the brightly painted walls.
“Dad had grilled steaks for dinner, but I was mad and declared I was a vegetarian.” A flood of memories rushed in as I spoke.
The menu slipped from his fingers as his laughter filled the small cantina—rich and unguarded, an echo of the forest moment we were both reluctant to leave behind. “How did he take that?”
I could still picture the look on Dad’s face, half-amused and half-exasperated. “He didn’t miss a beat. He just said, ‘Suit yourself, eat your broccoli.’ He thought it would blow over in a week.”
Cal’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “But you were too stubborn to let that happen.”
“Exactly,” I said, smiling at the memory of my dad’s resigned patience. “I’m still a vegetarian to this day.”
“A vegetarian rebel,” Cal mused as he set his menu to one side. “How very…fitting.” His voice was light, but an edge of genuine admiration lay beneath it. “And here I was expecting a plea for the plight of livestock.”
“It’s not an ethics thing,” I clarified. “Though I am in favor of humane treatment of animals.” I took a sip of my iced tea. “Somewhere along the way, I lost my taste for meat entirely.” I shook my head. “Actually, that’s not quite accurate. For me, it’s a texture thing. I don’t mind the flavor, like if something is cooked with meat. I just can’t eat it.”
“I’ll remember that when I cook you dinner.”
Warmth bloomed inside me at the thought of a next time beyond this stolen weekend. “You cook too?” I asked, aiming for casual when it was anything but. “I’m impressed.”
Our server returned to the table, notepad in hand, an amused tilt to her lips. Her look made me wonder just how obvious Cal and I were.
“Ready to order?” she asked, pen poised in her French-tipped fingers.
“Ladies first,” Cal said, nodding to me.
“I’ll have the veggie quesadilla,” I told her, handing over the weathered menu. “With an extra side of sour cream, please.”
“And I’ll have the tacos al carbon.”
“I’ll have that right out.” She clicked her pen closed and glanced at my nearly empty glass. “Need a refill? Sweet or unsweet?”
“Sweet,” I answered. “Thanks.”
She left the table, and I caught Cal trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“What?”
“You keep finding new ways to assault tea.”
