Page 149 of Butter My Biscuit

She moves in front of me and pulls me onto a side street that’s not quite as busy. I press her against the cool brick wall and kiss her.

“When I thought I was pregnant … what were you really thinking?”

“I imagined an entire life with you on the ranch, raising our baby together in our little house. It was a glimmer of hope that maybe we could be together, and in three minutes, it was gone. After I left Kinsley’s, I felt like I’d lost you all over again. I’d never wanted to be a dad … not until that very moment.”

Emotions threaten to spill over as she wraps her arms around my neck. “I felt the same way. But I also know that if that had happened, I’d have always questioned if you just wanted to be with me because of the kid. You’re too loyal. Doesn’t help that I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t what you were into. Maybe I was too short or curvy or not girlie enough.”

I study her. “You’re myonlytype. Perfect height. Perfect ass. And you’re not afraid to get dirty with me in all the right ways. I hooked up with people who were nothing like you to forget and replace. I didn’t want anyone I was with to be like you. They’d always be a reminder of what I couldn’t have.”

“Wow,” she whispers. “To hear you admit that. I always wondered why everyone was my polar opposite.”

“Yeah, well, why did you choose Scott Eastwood as your celebrity crush?”

She leans forward, brushing her nose against mine. “Easy. He’s always reminded me of you.”

“That’s what I thought, baby.”

I grin, wrapping my arm around her and leading her to the street, loving how open we’re able to be. How we can put it all out there, the old and the new. I’m learning so much and understanding all the caveats that kept us away from one another, knowing it will never happen again.

“When you made me kiss you in the tree house, what was the real reason?”

Grace chews on her bottom lip. “I wanted you to be my first, so then it would always be special. But I was too chickenshit to admit it, so I made up this elaborate story about needing to practice.”

“I knew it. But you know what they say, you never forget your first.” I smile.

“Who was yours again?” she asks. “I don’t remember.”

I look at her and confess something I’venevertold anyone. “You.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait, you said you’d kissed several people before that.”

“I lied. I was trying to make you jealous.” I shrug. “Plus, I knew you wanted it. Wantedme. Whatever stupid lie you made up, I didn’t care. I needed to kiss you. I almost had so many times before then.”

“When you used your tongue, I wanted to have sex right then. But I was always scared I’d get knocked up because of Beckett.”

He’d always joked that we’d be teen parents if Grace and I kept it up, even though we were innocent teenagers who weren’t fooling around like everyone suspected.

I pull her into me, laughing so loud that my voice bounces off the buildings. “My brother was a dick.”

She nods. “I had the biggest, stupidest crush on you. You left me breathless. Kissing you was my first real movie moment.”

“That’s when I knew you’d be mine.” I tuck hair behind her ear, just like I did that night when we were fourteen.

“Close your eyes,” I instruct, my voice lowering.

Her eyelashes flutter closed and we go through the same motions as when I first kissed her.

“Now, part your lips slightly,” I whisper, and she does.

Her chest rises and falls as I study her expression, moving close to her lips. I remember staring at her, wondering if I really had the balls to make the move. She’d brought it up; she was the one who had made a big deal about knowing how to kiss someone. And knowing she was going to be with some punk from school instead of me made me jealous.

“Now, when I kiss you, open your mouth a tiny bit wider. Okay?”

She nods, exactly like she did. When her breath is on my lips, I move forward, and our lips crash together. She opens her mouth wider, our tongues sliding together, and we make out for at least three minutes.

When I pull away, she’s smiling with her eyes still closed. “It was exactly like that.”

I look at the bumps that trail up and down her arms anytime I touch her. “There they are. Like clockwork.”

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