Page 62 of The Americana Playbook

“I’d hardly call it heartbreak.”

I shrug. “She seemed pretty happy to see you back here.”

“I told you, I like to come here to unwind.”

“Well, maybe one of those times you got wrapped right back up again. For all I know, she’s your type.”

Fitz takes his glass, the same one I just drank out of, from the table. “For all you know,you’remy type.”

“So you’re into brunettes?”

I twist to face him, expecting to find a hint of playfulness to his expression, but it’s anything but. In fact, the seriousness written in the creases of his eyes and the firmness of his jaw makes me reach out for the beer Fitz is holding. Again, I find the rim warm beneath my lips. I jut with it against my mouth when Fitz moves, pulling off his backward baseball cap.

“Your hair color is the least interesting thing about you,” he says, placing the hat on my head, running his fingers down to the ends of my hair. But his hand doesn’t drop.

“What?” I ask when his fingers close in on my face.

Fitz’s mouth twists. “You have…” His eyes flick over my shoulder, and I nearly turn to follow, but Fitz’s fingers hold my chin, so similarly to the night of the gala. My breath hitches as he angles his face, bringing it closer to mine, and I feel the beer slosh in the glass as I grip it tightly when his mouth plants the smallest kiss to the corner of my mouth.

“It was a drop.” But if it was a drop, I’m not sure why he’s still lingering, or why he brushes the strands of my hair back until he whispers in my ear, “there’s someone recording us in the corner.”

My free hand comes up to his chest, lightly clutching his t-shirt because I’m afraid if I hold the glass with both hands, I might crush it. “Is there?”

Fitz hums his answer and he’s so close I feel the echo flow down my body. “How soon until those photos are online?”

“Ninety seconds,” I guess, shivering when his breath dusts the soft skin of my ear.

“How many more after that until the White House sees them?”

“Eleven.” My voice nearly squeaks, my fingers flexing against his chest.

“Mmm. We should make the most of them, yeah?” Fitz brings his face back around to mine. He’s staring at my mouth so intensely I can practically feel it.

“May I?”

I dare anyone to say no.

I nod. My entire body melting at the perfect time, just as Fitz’s hand finds the small of my back, keeping me upright and against him as his mouth presses to mine. His breath is warm, his taste familiar, sweet from the beer. I don’t know if he realizes I shudder, because Fitz doesn’t change the tone of the kiss—it’s purposeful, just deep enough, and absolutely perfect, exactly as it was in the car at the gala.

But unlike the other night, Fitz breaks, but doesn’t pull away, and what changes is the way he swoops my lips back and capture mine. Now it’s different.

And now, this time, I’m really kissing him back.

I release his shirt and bring my hand to his cheek, the tips of my fingers tickled by the short scruff along my jaw. Everything ticks up a notch—the movement of our lips, the closeness of our bodies, and my pulse. If it wasn’t rushing so loudly through my veins, I might’ve sworn I just heard a soft sigh roll out of Fitz. I scratch at his cheek again, to give the sound another chance, but he pulls back just as the tips of our tongues touch, but not before I’ve captured his bottom lip between my teeth.

Yeah, I think to myself.This time it’s different.

Fitz doesn’t show me his face long enough for me to get a read. He returns to my ear. “I’m sorry.”

I realize I still have one hand resting on his collarbone, and more, he’s got his fingers spread across the top of my ass. “Why?” The seconds of silence that follow are punctuated by my pulse as I wait for his answer.

“Boundaries.” The tip of his nose brushes against my neck, the deep inhale he takes marked by the expansion of his chest beneath my hand. “Got carried away.”

Right.Me too.The thing is, I’m still being carried away—by his smell, his lingering taste, his closeness. So I do the right thing—I slide off his lap and slink to the opposite side of the table, adjusting my shirt that’s ridden up in the back.

This time, I take the full, untouched beer. “Blondes?” I ask. “Brunettes?” I realize I’m still wearing his hat, so I tug it off and extend my arm to place it back on his head.

Fitz sips his beer and shrugs, his eyes focusing more on the table.

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