Page 63 of Off Court Fix

“But my confession isn’t that I’m almost thirty and have never been on a real date.”

Crosby shakes his head. “What is it then?”

Leaning over the armrest, I press my lips to his cheek. “I’m glad I waited for it to be with you.”

How Crosby’s smile feels cutting into his face beneath my lips makes me tingly and warm, and I realize that this is what it should feel like—dating. The small twitches of excitement and joy ping-pong in my gut, and I grin hard into his skin, trying to hold onto the moment I know is fleeting. I soften my mouth and kiss him lightly again, this time dragging my mouth closer to his.

“What are you doing?” Crosby asks, even though he knows because he’s turning his head away from the screen toward me.

I brush my lips against his. “Isn’t this what people do at the movies?” I ask before I press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Make out?”

“That’s what kids do.”

“Oh.” Pulling back, I settle into my seat. “I forgot we’re among your peers and not mine,” I tease, motioning at the older couple at the front.

And then I’m nearly struck with whiplash when Crosby turns and cups the back of my head, pulling my face to his, and I’m reminded by the way his lips massage my mouth open, how his tongue slides against mine, that you’re never too old to have some fun.

It’s a lesson I happily learn as the commercials and trailers continue to play and the movie starts, but neither of us cares. We’re entirely too lost and hooked on each other, too tempted by tastes and breathing that grows heavier and deeper by the second. For all I care, a train could barrel through the theater and take me out at this very moment. I’d die happy if I shared my last bit of air with Crosby.

We pull apart but not away from each other. The armrest digs into my ribs, and I know my neck will be sore from keeping it bent at an angle, but I shift closer, nuzzling into Crosby’s warmth. I swing my arm and drop it into his lap, feeling something crinkle in his pocket.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You wanted Sour Patch Kids,” Crosby replies. “I smuggled some in.”

Even though they’re my favorite candy, I have no energy to eat at the moment. But I do have enough to smile.

His stubbly chin tickles my forehead when he rubs it against me.

“I forgive you,” Crosby whispers before sighing.

My eyelids grow heavy, and fighting their weight is an additional workout I was unprepared for.

“For what?” I mumble into him.

He doesn’t respond, but when I finally lose the battle to my exhaustion, I hear Crosby mutter something about watching the movie alone.

* * *

“God,” I groan into the mirror I’ve flipped down in Crosby’s car. Running a hand along the right side of my swollen face, I trace the imprint of Crosby’s shirt collar cutting into my cheek, red and raised. “I look terrible.”

Crosby shakes his head, reversing out of the parking spot. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never looked terrible one day in your entire life.”

Shutting the mirror, I find him drumming his hand against the wheel. I was the one who had the much-needed nap, but it’s clear Crosby has found some renewed energy between the previews starting and the end credits rolling.

Rolling the window completely down, Crosby rests his elbow on the door, the warm breeze filling the car as he makes it out of town and accelerates slightly down a quiet, empty road. I smile at his profile, as he smirks to himself. Despite his strong, stubbled jaw and the crow’s-feet I see peeking through the sides of his glasses, there’s something about Crosby in the moment as houses zoom by behind him that makes him look like a giddy teenager.

“What?” he asks, turning his head to me. “Why are you staring?”

“Don’t worry about what I’m looking at. Watch the road.”

Crosby’s gaze flickers toward the windshield momentarily before settling back on me. “Do you think I’d be reckless with you in the car?”

I look at the backseat, thinking about our first encounter, and shrug. “You were when we met.”

He shakes his head. “If that’s your idea of being reckless, be glad you didn’t know me in my twenties.”

I cock an eyebrow and tease, “Oh, yeah? And what exactly was twenty-something Crosby up to way back before women had the right to vote?”

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