Page 39 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
Cole
Shekissesmeagain.
It’s soft, deliberate, like she’s been holding the decision inside for a while and finally decided to let it out. For half a second, all I can do is blink, my brain scrambling to catch up to what’s happening. Harper—sharp, careful Harper who seems to analyze every word before she says it—just leaned across the coffee table and kissed me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then I kiss her back, slow enough to match her pace, letting it build instead of rushing toward whatever might come next. Her hand comes to rest lightly on my chest, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of every point of contact—the brush of her knee against mine under the coffee table, the faint scent of hershampoo, the way her lips curve slightly when she smiles against my mouth.
I’ve kissed plenty of women. More than I probably should have if I’m being honest. But this one feels different. Intentional. Like she’s choosing me specifically instead of just choosing someone to pass the time with.
The background noise of the apartment fades—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the wall clock, even Rex’s soft snoring from Finn’s room. All of it disappears under the steady rhythm of our breathing and the quiet sound of the town beyond the windows.
I’m not pulling her closer, not yet. Something tells me to let her set the tone, to follow her lead instead of assuming I know what she wants. And she doesn’t seem in any rush to move away, content to explore this moment without pushing it toward something bigger.
When she finally pulls back slightly, her eyes stay on mine, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks that has nothing to do with the wine.
“That was a thank-you for dessert,” she says, but there’s a flicker in her smile like she’s testing me, seeing how I’ll respond.
“Guess I’ll have to make dessert more often,” I reply, keeping my voice easy even though my pulse is still kicking hard enough that I’m surprised she can’t feel it where her hand rests on my chest.
She laughs—soft and genuine—and shifts back into her spot on the couch, curling her legs under her in that unconscious way people do when they’re truly comfortable somewhere. I drop the last of the game pieces into the box, but my eyes keep drifting her way, cataloging the small changes in her demeanor.
She’s pretending to study the wine in her glass, swirling it, but there’s a little curve to her mouth that wasn’t there earlier. Something satisfied and pleased, like she’s just confirmed a theory she’d been wondering about.
“So,” she says after a moment, “do I get to declare this a draw since I technically got the last move?”
“I think a kiss counts as forfeiting,” I reply. “You abandoned your strategy to pursue other interests.”
“Other interests?” She raises an eyebrow, but she’s fighting a smile. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?”
She takes another sip of wine, considering. “Impulse control failure.”
“Sounds serious. Should I be concerned?”
“Probably.”
I want to push—to see where else this could go tonight, to find out if she’s thinking the same things I’m thinking. But something about Harper tells me not to rush this, not to assume that one kiss means she’s ready for whatever might come next. There’s a careful quality to her that suggests she doesn’t make decisions lightly, and I don’t want to be another guy who pushes too hard too fast.
Instead, I reach for the remote on the side table. “Want to watch something? I promise to pick something that won’t put you to sleep.”
She tilts her head, studying me with something that might be curiosity or might be approval. “Find us something good to watch, then. But if you pick something bad, I’m leaving.”
“The pressure,” I murmur.
I scroll through the options on Netflix, looking for something that won’t bore her but also won’t require too much attention. Something we can half-watch while talking, or not talking, or whatever feels right.
We end up watching some British baking show that’s somehow both completely ridiculous and oddly soothing. Harper provides running commentary on the contestants’ techniques, clearly knowing more about pastry than I would have expected, while I try not to get distracted by the way she gestures with her wine glass when she gets animated about proper tempering techniques.
She’s sitting close enough that our shoulders brush now and then, casual contact that sends little sparks of awareness through me each time. But I don’t try to force anything more. The kiss was enough to plant the hook, and I can feel it there between us—the promise of something that could develop if we’re both patient enough to let it.
When she finally checks her phone and realizes how late it’s gotten, we get in my truck and drive across town to where her car is still parked.
“Maddie let me borrow her car,” she smiles. “Imagine that.”
I smile. “I hope she doesn’t mind I kept you out late.”
“She’s like my mother, so if I get in trouble for curfew, I’m blaming you.”
