Page 92 of A Novel Love Story

“So”—another nervous step, then another—“it was a waste of their time.”

“Or,” I supposed, leaning against the side of the bridge on the other side, making it sway a little, much to his distress, “you didn’t want to go with someone who’d already seen it before. But that can’t be right.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you seem like a guy who doesn’t care much for firsts.”

He reached the other side and bent down to me. He said, low and serious, “I care very much about firsts, sweetheart. Also”—and he slapped my hand off the bridge rope—“you’re the worst.” Then he stalked ahead of me, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

I liked his grumpiness, I finally admitted to myself, almost as much as I liked the view of him from behind.

It was a short walk from the bridge to the waterfall, and I heard it long before I actually saw it, a loud, roaring sound that reverberated like rolling thunder. We passed under an outcropping of rock, and then there it was on the other side.

Quixotic Falls.

It took my breath away.

The waterfall was so tall, I had to crane my neck to see the top of it. Shimmers of a rainbow reflected in the mist and sunlight, and the air was cool and damp. It felt good in the humidity of the afternoon. I closed my eyes, and enjoyed the mist that clung to my skin, coagulating into droplets. We walked along the underside of it, and the sunlight hit the falling water like it was glimmers of glass. The tunnel between the rock face and the waterfall was smooth and rounded from thousands of years of erosion. Vines crawled across the rocks—morning glories and four o’clocks and honeysuckles. The waterfall poured down into a small watering hole that then slowly wormed its way into a larger river down the mountain. I knew this place would feel whimsical. Surrounding the swimming hole,the bright pink heather and stark white yarrow mixed with coneflowers and black-eyed Susans.

“I wish Pru could see this place.” I reached out and ran a hand under the waterfall. It was sharply cool, like sticking my hand into a bucket of ice. Remembering all of the books, all of the days I hid inside pages, trying to find some sort of happily ever after when reality refused.

“The water’s colder than I thought,” I said.

He stepped up beside me and reached his hand into the waterfall, too, at first to test the pressure and the coldness, and then laced his fingers through mine. “It feels nice,” he remarked, though I suspected he didn’t just mean the water.

My throat stung. My gaze shifted to his profile, as he looked up at the towering waterfall. “Yes,” I agreed in a small, unsure voice, the warmth of his hand in stark contrast with the water, “it does.”

He turned his face toward me. He leaned closer—or was that me leaning closer? He concentrated on my lips, so close now I breathed in the scent of his aftershave. We retracted our hands from the waterfall, our fingers still laced together.

“I thought you didn’t want me to kiss at the waterfall?” I asked. The roar of the water was so loud, it drowned everything else out in a rush of white noise. Everything but me, and him.

“No, no, I didn’t,” he replied, his words hot against my lips.

I eased back then, because nothing good could come from this. Nothing at all. He had a heroine out there somewhere, a happy ending who would come waltzing into town and steal his heart, and I did not have the strength to suffer that again. Not a second time. “Well,” I said, letting go of his hand as I turned away, “perhaps we shouldn’t—”

He grabbed my wrist and spun me back, and pulled me tight against him. His peridot eyes were dark, almost the color of pebbles at the bottom of a river.“Perhaps I just didn’t want anyone else to kiss you.”

I didn’t give him the chance, because I grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled myself up onto my tiptoes, and crushed my mouth against his first.

28

Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls

HE TASTED LIKE MINTSand black tea.

It felt like he was waiting for my mouth to find his. For a second he was surprised, but then he held me tighter against him and melted into the moment. And he kissed—oh,fuck, he kissed like he made it his mission to read kissing books every day of his life. It was gentle at first, questioning, until my fingers curled up into his hair and he took that as a yes. Because it was. My mouth parted, and he tilted my head back and deepened the kiss. My ears rang with the sound of the waterfall. It was thundering, but so was my heart, and I wasn’t sure which was louder.

When we finally came up for air, I gasped.

“I never get tired of kissing you,” I murmured, tugging at the collar of his Henley.

“I could say the same,” he whispered, his pupils wide, blotting out the minty green completely. His chest rose and fell quickly, his breath hot against my mouth. “Though I could do so much more.”

“Then do it,” I whispered, and pushed him backward.

He fell through the waterfall into the pool on the other side, and I followed. I gasped as I hit the icy water, gooseflesh prickling up my skin. He came back to the surface with a gasp, and pushed his hair out of his face.

“How dare y—”

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