Page 13 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
The jacket’s heavy with his scent—clean with a hint of spice, cedar and clove—like it’s lived there a long time. I snuggle into it like my favorite blanket, soaking in its warm history. We walk in comfortable silence for several minutes. The park is quiet now. Lights glowing softly above our head, the faint rustle of leaves, the distant sound of a dog barking.
Out of the blue, he says, “You’re different.”
His voice is quiet, matter of fact. My stomach twists, but I can’t bring myself to say something clever.
I pause and look at him. “Different, how?”
He holds my gaze and leans in slightly. The lights from the path catch in his eyes—dark, unreadable, intense. It does something to my pulse that I wish I could blame on the wine or the smell of his jacket.
“You say what you think. Most people don’t.”
My throat tightens, not because it’s untrue, but because no one’s ever said it without making it sound like a flaw. I suddenly feel like a spotlight’s shining down on me, and I panic.
“Maybe I should learn to filter,” I say with a fair amount of sarcasm.
His head tilts. “Don’t.”
He says it too quickly. His hand moves before I can process it. His fingers brush inside the coat and wrap around my elbow. Firm, possessive, yet gentle and grounding.
Heat radiates up my arm and curls beneath my ribs. I can’t stop the way my breath hitches, the way my eyes flick to his mouth and back again. Our gazes lock. My heart thuds once, twice, three times, hard against my ribs. His thumb strokes over my skin as we stand under the moonlight, barely touching, barely breathing.
I swallow as his gaze lowers to my mouth.
He leans closer, giving me every opportunity to pull away, but I tilt my chin instead. I couldn’t stop now if I tried. My pulse trips. My breath stutters. A low, steady heat coils in my belly, growing insistent with each second.
His fingers brush the side of my jaw. My skin tingles, and a shiver runs the length of my spine to the crux of my thighs. His palm traces the curve of my cheek as his thumb grazes the corner of my mouth.
When he finally kisses me, his lips are warm and unhurried. My body sways into his, and I grab his shirt, clutching it in my fists to steady myself. His hand slides across my jaw and tangles in my hair, cradling my head as the kiss deepens.
The world narrows. All my focus is spent on his lips and the way he holds me like I’m delicate and fragile. Like I am more than enough. And that’s everything.
***
Logan
She tastes of wine and sweetness. Bright and eager, yet soft and pure as if it’s the first time she’s been kissed. I have no delusions of innocence, and first times. But she’s a first for me. And I’m trying not to need what’s innately her, but I fail miserably.
Her lips are soft, warm, more responsive than I expect, and when she leans in, deepening our connection, I feel it everywhere. It leaves me breathless and hungry, wanting more.
We break apart slowly. Her lips part, and her lashes flutter open, our noses a whisper apart. Her breath brushes over my lips, tickling in wisps that can only be described as whimsy and desire. She blinks, a little dazed, and I’m right there with her. Drunk on her.
“Wow,” she says, her voice airy.
“Yeah.”
She grins slowly, studying me. “And tell me why you’re single again?”
It’s playful. She’s teasing. But the question knots in my gut and burrows into the wound that never seems to heal. I glance down, like the answer’s hiding in the lines of her palms. And maybe it is. I’ve never felt this much at ease with a woman. Never wanted complete honesty so badly in my life.
Because the truth is, before now, I’ve never liked talking about my personal life. It’s failures and deficits. Especially not my feelings.
And I don’twantto now, but I need to. I owe her something after all she’s shared with me. Not that she’d demand it, but because I respect her and... I trust her like she’s trusted me. An eye for an eye, only one heart to another.
“I’ve had relationships,” I say. “They just never felt like... they weren’t the right fit. I was always trying to be what they wanted instead of being me. But I don’t do grand gestures or make speeches. I’m not built for that.”
Her eyes soften, the teasing ease slipping into something gentler, quieter. She smooths her hands over my chest, comforting and distracting at the same time.
“I’ve been told that I’m not expressive enough,” I continue. “That I don’t say the right things. Or feel the right way. That I’m closed off. Emotionally bankrupt.”
