Page 57 of Love is an Open Book
I expect him to set me down once we’re inside, but he carries me all the way to the chaise lounge. Maybe he sensed I was tired enough to collapse by the door and use my entryway rug as a mattress.
“Consider your bid for Rake of the Year denied.” He’s kneeling by my side, which only enhances the knight-in-shining-armor act he’s got going on. Except it’s not an act. Over the years, he’s found ways to take care of me every time I’ve been sick, dropping off chicken noodle soup at my doorstep when I’m contagious, keeping me company when I’m not. “You haven’t even tried to flirt with me for your troubles.”
“Haven’t I?” His eyes flicker to mine, haloed by lashes tipped with gold. Is he remembering the greenhouse? Or our conversation in his office? Or how we flirted during the workplace romance trope test, mere feet from where we are now? The implication that none of it was fake for him leaves me breathless.
When I don’t answer, he returns to tending to my hand. “How’d you get so good at that?” I ask, trying not to stare at the peek of his tongue at the corner of his mouth as he dabs ointment into my cuts. “You chickened out of biology because the labs involved dissection.”
He grimaces, brow creasing. “Not wanting to slice flesh is different than bandaging a wound.”
“Ew, don’t say ‘slice flesh’ when you’re dealing with my cuts.” I pull back my hand involuntarily, and he lets go, shifting back on his heels. There’s a small tear in the knee of his jeans that wasn’t there earlier, evidence of how different his days are to mine—dealing with weather and physical exertion and people, so many people.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I say, voicing my thoughts. My job isn’t easy, but it suits me, the solitary nature of it, working on my own schedule.
He rips open a packet of gauze, forearms flexing, and, geez, the man has had arms since we met. What’s gotten into me?
“I’ve had my share of blisters,” he says, mistaking my comment to be about the bandaging. He holds up his palm as evidence, but all I see is healthy skin, calloused near the base of his fingers. “Dad taught me and Scott how to care for them. They’ll need air to heal, but for tonight, you should protect them.”
He unspools gauze as he says this, placing a pad against myskin, and I let out a hiss. He glances up, treating me to a flash of his blue eyes, gone aquamarine with the light streaming in through the bay window. “Sorry.” He bends and presses a featherlight kiss to the inside of my wrist.
So quick, so natural, that it takes me a moment to register what just happened. Gavin’s lips touched my skin. He.Kissed.Me. On my wrist, nowhere scandalous, but there’s a reason my collection of historical romances is dog-eared, the pages falling open to the best spots. There’s something about a chaste kiss that’s anything but.
His head snaps up like he’s realized his mistake. “Damn, Mia. I shouldn’t have...” In one telltale instant, his eyes drop to my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I lean over and kiss him.
His mouth is soft under mine, yielding, and his fingers tighten on my wrist, drawing me closer, obliterating any doubt I had about whether he wanted this. His lips part, treating me to a delicious swipe of his tongue. Maybe kissing him after years of keeping our distance should be strange or outrageous but all I feel is good. So good that I’m mad at us for not trying this sooner. For being so worried about what we’d lose that we never realized what we were missing out on.
But all coherent thoughts are wiped from my brain when he deepens the kiss, lips sliding against mine. With him on his knees, me on one elbow, we’re on the same level, both surrendering to a desire we’ve decided to stop denying. I never dared dream of this, yet the need for his touch is all-consuming.
Why did we ever spend a single moment not doing exactly this? Gavin must be having similar thoughts, because his other hand finds its way to my shoulder, my waist, my hip, tracing my body in a way that feels like an awakening.
Maybe it should feel out of place to be kissing him, but it feels like we’re right where we’re supposed to be. We’re not testing the limits because who we are to each other has expanded.This kiss doesn’t cross any lines, because the lines we’d drawn in the past don’t apply. They were for someone else, an old version of Mia and Gavin, not the people we’ve become, the relationship we’ve developed over the years.
Right now, I’m not worried over the end of our story, I’m just enjoying the pure bliss of his mouth on mine, a gentle pressure that slips into something hungrier, his breath catching when my hand skims his arm, fingers tightening of their own accord, and I let out a yelp as my raw skin connects with his shirt.
He pulls away, eyes wide. Then he glances down at my open palm and worry knits his brow. “Are you all right?”
I nod, trying not to wince. He must notice, because he sits back on his heels, running a hand through his hair. “I should head out so you can rest.”
Resting is out of the question, but I nod, feeling suddenly shy, though my brain hasn’t caught up to the enormity of the moment. He rises to his feet, stuffing the scraps of trash in the bag. “Can I get you food or anything?” he asks, bringing over my tumbler.
I shake my head, embarrassed by how much I’ve already let him take care of me.
“All right,” he says, seeming to be at a loss. “Call if you need anything.”
“Should I tell them I won’t be volunteering tomorrow?” I signed up to volunteer two days in a row, but with my hands like this, I can’t imagine making it through a second day.
He shakes his head, not meeting my eyes. “I’ll do it. Take it easy.”
And with that, he lets himself out, locking the door with the spare key I gave him. No mention of the kiss we shared, and I’m sure all he wants to do is forget it ever happened. Too bad that will be impossible.
Eighteen
Gavin
Leaving Mia after our kiss was pure self-preservation. I couldn’t bear hearing that it was a mistake. I was afraid she’d play it off as nothing or ask me to pretend it never happened and I can’t. Not yet, at least.
So I didn’t stay long enough to hear her regrets, and all I can hope is I haven’t ruined things. The threat of losing her was the entire reason I never asked her out back in college, bottling up my feelings until I thought they’d ceased to exist. But the trope tests loosened the lid and our kiss knocked the jar open and out came every pent-up desire.
