Page 41 of The Bodyguard Affair
A millisecond after he dips his lips toward mine, I spring forward on my toes like a jack-in-the-box, entirely misjudging the distance.
Your Honor, it’s a disaster. Let the record show, I’m an abysmal kisser. Gretchen clicks away as his perfect nose clumsily grazes the side of mine. Thankfully, this time it’s our cheekbones that collide first, not our lips. The pain makes me lose my footing, and I stumble into his chest, stomping on his polished shoe in the process.
He pulls back abruptly and his brows lift.You nearly took me out, they say.
Before I can curl into a ball and roll down the mountainside, he closes the distance between us again, steadying his hands on the small of my waist. I surrender, letting him take full control of this one. And he really does. He comes in slow, his thumb brushing against my cheek in a sweet, adoring way I’ve only written about in my books, never experienced. His lips follow, brushing against mine in the softest whisper. It’s so light, I have to open my eyes for a fraction of a second to confirm contact.
A confetti cannon goes off in my chest, exploding all the way to my toes. I shiver from the sensation, exhaling disappointment when he pulls back.
He inhales, his eyes fluttering to a close before his mouth catches mine. Fast. And this time, I’m ready. And when he slipshis tongue against my lips, I part them immediately, my knees nearly buckling at its searing warmth.
He tastes pure, like water and nothing in particular except maybe a hint of mint. His tongue slides against mine and I can’t help but whimper into his mouth. At the sound, he tightens his grip on my waist, letting his hand creep up my spine, vertebra by vertebra. I press myself forward, my breath shallow, frantic to have him closer. He gives me a quick squeeze, giving my bottom lip one last suck, which nearly unravels me entirely. I don’t know how much time passes. It could be an hour, or two seconds. But when he finally pulls away, my lips are swollen and my chest is heaving.
Holy shit.
That wasn’t like the first time. Not at all. I am officially short-circuiting, unlike Nolan, who looks cool as ever, smirking at me like he’s expecting me to say something.
“I got some cute ones. I’ll text them to you,” Gretchen says. “Oh, when we get in the car, I need you to go through my phone and delete everything I don’t need. My phone is running out of storage.”
I nod, so utterly dizzy and flustered by what just happened, I barely compute a word.
“Was it as bad as last time?” Nolan whispers as we follow Gretchen and Eric to the cars.
I swallow and my throat is like sandpaper. It’s an unfair question, really. If I say yes, it could hurt his feelings. If I say no, I’m opening things up into dangerous territory. So I settle on, “It was similar.”
“Similar? As in bad?”
I level him with a look. “I mean, do you think it was good? I hit your face with mine.”
He scratches the side of his head, like he needs to really think about it. “It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’thorrible,” he assures. “But if you’re worried about it, we have all summer to work on it.”
Great. Just great.
Chapter 18
Nolan
No chemistry.
Those words have haunted me since we got back to Ottawa. I’ve never thought of myself as having a fragile ego, but damn. That stung.
Sure, our first kiss years ago wasn’t the smoothest. But that second one in Squamish was light-years better, on my end at least. I don’t know if it was her swollen lips, or the little breathy noise she made when I pulled her flush to me, or the way she tasted, sweet like the lemon tea she was drinking earlier. In any case, it’s a good thing our bosses were there, because I’d have been tempted to keep it going as long as she’d let me.
Regardless, whatever I think about our chemistry (or alleged lack thereof) means nothing, because Andi thought it was shit and I just have to fucking deal.
It reminds me of when I was in fifth grade. I had an embarrassingly pathetic crush on this girl at school, Jolene Smith. Likeevery grade school boy does when they like someone, I chased her around the playground, teased her, did anything I could to get her attention without actually being nice, to no avail. At the encouragement of Em on Valentine’s Day, I gave her a handwritten card asking her to be my valentine. She handed it back immediately.
“I already have a valentine,” she told me in an ultraserious tone. “Joe Jonas.” Joe fucking Jonas from the Jonas Brothers. Her celebrity crush. It was traumatizing, to say the least. I spent the whole weekend sulking on my grandma’s couch, playing video games and speaking to no one. And I’ve hated Joe and his thick, sweeping bangs ever since.
This feels ten times worse. I’ve been moping around over Andi and ourno chemistrysince I got home last night, which is just sad. Being around Andi is effortless. I don’t feel like I have to put on a show, or worry she’ll take my dry humor the wrong way. Sure, she’s shy, a little reserved, but I appreciate it, because she doesn’t talk for the sake of talking. She speaks with intention, not just to fill the dead air. Contrary to my first impression of her, she doesn’t take herself too seriously, at least not with me. In Squamish, she let her hair down, let her goofy side come out. And fuck. That smile. Not the fake, tight-lipped one when she’s trying to appease someone. The genuine one that unfurls slowly when something amuses her, or when she’s talking about her writing. It’s the way it spills across her whole face. The way her eyes crinkle a little in the corners. The way it reaches her eyes, illuminating them like little goblets of sunshine in a way that makes my resting pulse go haywire.
God. I really need to get a grip. I already have my hands full with Mom, making sure she has everything she needs untilSeptember. I don’t need more complications in my life. And the last thing I want to do is start something I can’t finish.
Speaking of Mom, the distinct smell of grease wafts through the crack under my bedroom door. It smells like…bacon? I toss on a T-shirt and jeans and pad into the kitchen to make sure everything is okay.
Sure enough, Mom is at the stove flipping sizzling bacon strips in a skillet, while stirring eggs in another and singing a Madonna song. Alarm is my first instinct. Mom shouldn’t be making food over a hot stove, especially not food with boiling grease. Theresa and Em hid most of the unsafe cooking ingredients and tools out of reach in the upper cabinets, all of which are open. I make a mental note to add childproof locks.
I go to clear my throat and ask how she got up there, but the moment my toe passes over the ceramic tile, she turns and offers a coy smile, like she senses my presence. “I knew you couldn’t pass up bacon.”
