Page 101 of The Comeback Summer

“I feel like celebrating,” he says. “Have another drink with me?”

“Sure,” I say, trying not to get my hopes too high. He just wants to celebrate, and I’m here. “Another French 75?”

“I’ve got a better idea. Come with me.”

He grabs my hand, and my entire body sparks with electricity. But there’s no time for me to be flustered—he’s pulling me through the kitchen, out a back door, and up a flight of stairs. I don’t realize he’s taking me to the apartment above the restaurant until he opens the door, leading me into his living room.

“Oh,” I say.

Adam drops my hand and heads down a hallway. As soon as he disappears from sight, I stare at my palm, wondering what kind of receptors under my skin could make holding hands with a cute guy make my insides go haywire. At least the feeling distracts me from wondering what’s going on, and why he brought me up here.

He returns a moment later, carrying a bottle of wine.

“Do you like red?” he asks.

“I do,” I tell him.

He nods, as if this is important information he’s filing away. “Great,” he says. “A customer brought me this bottle—it’s French. Maybe we can do a theme with French everything. French wine. French fries. French bread.”

French kissing, I think.

He’s close enough now that I can smell him—woodsy and warm. His curls fall across his forehead, and I put my hands behind my back to remind myself not to reach out and brush them away.

“So, what do you think?” Adam asks.

I blink, realizing I missed something he said. He’s now only inches away, and I’m captivated by the sight of him: the flecks of green in his brown eyes, the lock of hair that’s fallen across his forehead, the way his lips part.

“I think...”

I don’t know what I’m thinking. There are no words in this moment. Just him and me and the space between us, which is getting smaller and smaller until we’re a breath apart. And then his lips are on mine, soft and tentative.

I freeze, afraid that one wrong move will break the spell.

Adam hesitates, too, and I don’t want him to think that I don’t want this, that I don’t want him. So, I stop thinking and do what I’ve been dreaming about since my first conversation with Adam two months ago. I press my lips back against his, opening my mouth in an invitation.

Adam deepens the kiss, cupping my face with one hand, pulling me closer until our tongues meet, sending a shiver down my thighs. The rough scratch of his beard tickles, and my lips curve into a smile. He tastes sweet, like champagne and possibility, and I can’t believe this is happening.

I close my eyes, afraid that if I open them, I’ll wake up and be anywhere but here: standing in Adam’s apartment, his arms around me as the summer sky moves from dusk to night, the sound of traffic on the street outside. Kissing. A lot.

Just in case this turns out to be my active imagination again, I let my hands drift up and down his back, feeling the muscles I knew were hiding beneath his shirt. He flexes under my touch and gives my bottom lip a playful bite before moving down to the curve of my neck, sending desire racing along my skin like flames. He traces kisses along my collarbone and up to my jaw before finding my mouth again, lips open and wanting.

His hands drop down to my waist and keep going until he’s cupping my butt, pulling me against him. He wedges his leg between mine and I can feel his arousal. The physical reaction he’s getting from kissing me.Libby.

I wish I could swallow this man whole.

Of all the times I imagined doing this with Adam, I wasn’t really me. I was Hannah. But she’s not here. I am. I’m dying to touch his skin, so I slip my hands under his shirt and he lets out a hum of pleasure. Our kisses become more urgent, a little desperate, and heat licks up and down my spine. One of his hands is buried in my hair, and the other is exploring my curves, sliding from my waist up my rib cage to my breast, and I mentally curse the fabric of my shirt and bra that separates his hand from my skin.

Adam’s hands drift back down to my waist and slip beneath my shirt, and I sigh with gratitude. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, awake for the first time in years, and they are all saying,Take me, I’m yours.

His fingers dance along the hem of my shirt. I’m lost in this moment, drowning in pleasure—until I feel the sensation of air against my bare back.

And it hits me like a lightning bolt to my brain. He’s taking my shirt off. My shirt. The shirt that’s covering my too-tight jeans.

Panic slices through the haze of desire.No.He can’t. I can’t. We can’t.

I step back, pulling my shirt down, wishing it was an invisibility cloak. I shouldn’t have let myself get carried away by the booze and the magic of the night. I know how this story ends. The way it always ends. With a guy getting his kicks in private, but not wanting to be seen with me in public.

“Libby?” Adam asks, reaching for me.

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