Page 106 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

When I kissed her last night, she kissed me back. With gusto. She took my efforts and expanded them. I would have given her my best for five seconds and broken apart so as not to show all my cards.

She memorized the deck and then changed the game completely.

That kiss …

It felt like us. Ash and Rusty.

Not “Ash and Rusty plus kissing.”

Just Ash and Rusty.

She stands up from cuddling Pookie and washes her hands. "Should we finish the pizza?"

"As you wish."

She fans herself. "Whew. Saying that with that hoarseness in your voice? Dang."

And then she kisses me.

It's a peck, a brush of her lips against mine, but it is earth shattering.

My eyes are still closed when she backs away, and I must look like a fool, but I can't move. I'm stuck to the earth so firmly, I'm growing roots. When my eyes open, Ash is smiling at me coyly. "Let's go, Farm Boy. Momma's starving."

We eat at a table on the deck. A light breeze breaks up some of the humidity, making the night comfortable. Ash lights a couple of citronella candles to ward off bugs, and we eat and talk and talk some more.

I've never met someone I fit so naturally with. We have a lot of similar tastes. We both binge audiobooks, podcasts, and love doing puzzles. We prefer Marvel to DC, but while she likes the Avengers, I like X-Men. She likes Star Trek: Next Generation while I'm a Deep Space Nine kind of guy. When she starts talking about her favorite band—Duncan and Nash—I try not to choke.

"You like Nash? That guy's a loser. He rode Duncan's coattails."

"How do you figure? One of them still has a career and the other doesn't!"

I more than figure, but I won't tell Ash that.

"Isn't it weird that he only had one good solo album after the band broke up?"

"Yes," she admits. "I figure it's the fame. It got to his head."

"I agree with you there," I say. "He sucks." She crumples her napkin and throws it at me.

I let it pelt my shoulder. "Is this how it's gonna be from now on? I disagree with you and throw stuff at me?"

"What? That's absurd. You're allowed to disagree with me. I promise to only throw stuff at you when you're wrong."

"Oh, is that all? And how will I know if I'm wrong?"

"If you disagree with me."

I chuckle. She reaches across the table to grab my napkin—no doubt to throw at me—and I catch her hand by the wrist.

"Sorry, Gorgeous. I have a strict 'no throwing things at the table' policy."

"Really?" she asks. She puts her other hand up on the table, palm up. "What's the penalty for breaking it?"

"Five minutes in the penalty box."

"Is that like seven minutes in heaven?"

Heat pools in my abdomen. "Never played it."

---