Page 49 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

His touch becomes a barely-there sweep along my jaw, a gentle lift of my chin.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

I smile, only meaning to swat his hand from in front of me, but I end up catching it. His smile shifts, and his fingers tentatively thread through mine.

“Two?” I guess belatedly.

He rubs his thumb along the inside of my palm. “We should probably get you to a doctor. You’re clearly not yourself.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Probably.”

I want to give in to this feeling. These eyes, as dark as the evening sky, searching mine with playful intensity. The insatiable late-night summer fire smell of him. This look like he could burn right through me. I realize we’re still holding hands.

“In case there’s any confusion,” he says. “I’m not a doctor.”

Instead of letting go, I tug him ever so slightly closer. Close enough that I can trace the buttons along his shirt with my free hand, so for some reason, I do. Down his solid chest. One after another. It’s a nice shirt. And he’s got a very nice body, one wrapped with lean muscles that harden beneath my touch. The lower I get, the shallower his breath becomes, and I can’t help thinking about the way he looks shirtless. How his skin would feel against mine. What it would be like to trace that line of hair from his belly button, all the way down…

I guide his hand to my waist. His fingers spread wide instinctively, stretching across the strip of exposed skin along my ribcage.

“God, you’re soft,” he breathes.

“Observation or compliment?” I say.

“Sabotage,” he murmurs.

I smile with a liquid ache spreading through me, and I can suddenly feel how it would be between us. Teasing and hot and sure.

I run my hands up his chest. I realize with sudden certainty that if I don’t plan to kiss him, I should stop now. There’s harmless flirting and then there’s, well, this. Our hands on each other. Quentin standing between my thighs. The energy radiating off of him, seductive and playful and wanting. My lips feel ready to betray me, ripe and heavy in a way that feels urgent. Inevitable. Begging me to cross every boundary we ever agreed upon.

My heart hammers in my chest, reminding me that there is no turning back from here. If I linger for one more breath. If I tuck my fingers into the top of his beltline. If I lean in slightly, so close my nose brushes his. If I just… let things happen, for once.

And then – as if by divine intervention – something does happen. It comes in the form of a loud, thunderous boom. It seems to vibrate through the building, and my breath catches in my chest. For a moment, I’m left blinking up at him. I seem to suddenly see myself: heart pounding, lips parted, a breath away from kissing Quentin Maxwell. And then, the resigned certainty that I’m not actually going to kiss Quentin Maxwell. Instead of matching my expression, his eyes spark with the ghost of a grin.

“Come with me,” he says.

He tugs me off the desk in a smooth, unexpected pull and leads me by the hand, through the shadowy hallways. My unkissed lips feel tingly and confused.

“I don’t actually need a doctor,” I offer.

He shushes me, and for some reason, I stifle a laugh. He picks up the pace, and I follow him without knowing why we’re running and ducking behind cubicles like assassins, as if anyone is here to catch us sneaking around.

“Where are we going? What is that noise?” I hiss, just above a whisper. (Hissper?) “Is this when you admit to me that you’re The Dr. Pepper Thief?”

He lifts a finger to his lips when I let out a giggle.

A few maneuvers later, we find ourselves in a conference room on the south side of the building, just in time to see sparkling bursts of color light up the inky sky. I realize as I step up to the wall of windows that we’re still holding hands. The lights of the minor league baseball stadium that’s nestled in the middle of downtown have gone dark for this very occasion. The belated firework boom echoes on the other side of the windows. Up here, we’re eye level with the sparks and embers. His hand slides out of mine easily.

“Front row seat?” he offers, swiveling a chair in my direction.

“Did you plan this?” I say suspiciously, sinking into it with a smile. He relaxes into one beside me.

“Oh yeah. I paid a fortune for that billboard in hopes that it would lure you to my office in the middle of the night, just in time for me to impress you with a private fireworks show.”

“The long con, then,” I say, nodding.

“Exactly,” he smirks.

I smile, swiveling back and forth in my chair. I wonder if he realizes how close we were. I wonder if there’s some part of him that’s relieved, like some part of me is. I wonder if there’s also a part that’s unsettled, the way you feel when someone cuts a song to silence right in the middle of the chorus, but your lungs insist that you keep singing, if only to finish out the bar. I wonder if his heart is still fluttering in his throat.

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