I follow him down the hall and to a back room. It’s empty except for various pieces of an Ikea bookshelf that are scattered here and there, with a piece of paper left sitting on top of the pile.
“So.” I point to the mess on the floor. “This is our project?”
“Project is a loose term here. Gives more credit than I should get,” he says. “I’m not good at Ikea anything. I ordered it and thought it would come already put together.”
“Aren’t you cute?” I tease, shaking my head as I hold my hand out. “I’m an Ikea pro. Hand me the Allen wrench and the paper, I’ll have this baby put together in less than ten minutes.”
He looks at me with wide eyes. “No way.”
“Way.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “I bet you dinner that you can’t do it in ten.”
“I love a challenge,” I say as I crack my knuckles. “Accepted.”
Taking the paper from his hand, I wait for him to give me the signal that the time is starting before I dive in. I was serious when I said I’m a pro at this; I used to live ten minutes away from an Ikea in LA, and for the first twelve years of my life there, I was a weekly regular at that store. I loved walking it and seeing new things, sitting on the uncomfortable couches, and randomly having some Swedish meatballs.
I can tell by Austin’s stance that he doubts me. It’s fine. I’m used to people doubting me; it makes the look on their face when I win that much sweeter. And I’m not going to tell him that not only did I have this exact bookcase in my old place, but I also put two together for Spencer, so I know what I’m doing.
With two minutes left on the clock, I toss the wrench to the ground and clap my hands as I stand up.
“Time!” I scream as Austin laughs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” He cracks up and shows me my time. “A little over eight minutes. You’re a mad genius.”
I swat at him, but he puts his hand up as if he’s about to stop me only to grab my arm, and we freeze. There’s a moment where I could awkwardly pull away and change the subject, but there’s another moment here. The one where I stay my ground and keep my eyes on his, and instead of stepping away, I do the opposite—I step toward him.
He drags his eyes slowly to my lips, heat flooding my body as he does. I don’t know where my head’s at, but I’m suddenly overly conscious of them—do they look smooth? I can get the worst chapped lips. It would be a crying shame if today was the day they start peeling. Also, gross, but just…not now.
I do a quick check and am pleased to report they feel fine. Smooth. In the process, though, I run them together slowly, forgetting that he is looking directly at them.
Now my overthinking comes into play. Does he think I’m rubbing my lips together for him? Does he want me to be? Maybe he thinks I’m being too forward, but I’m not—I was just making sure my lips at least look nice. No one wants to have a view of crusty lips, right?
“Hey,” Austin whispers, his hand still wrapped around my forearm as he steps closer. “You look like you just spun out into a million different places. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I begin to say, but then I stumble over my words. “Or no. Maybe. Yes. Maybe. I am maybe okay. Definitely, maybe.”
Austin lifts an eyebrow. “Definitely, maybe okay?”
“That’s it,” I say, taking a step closer to him. I can smell his aftershave. Spicy. Warm and invigorating, with notes of clove, cinnamon, and maybe a hint of pepper.
It’s masculine and makes something inside of me ignite. I drag my eyes back to his again, making sure he’s watching me, only this time when I glide my tongue across my bottom lip, I do it because I want to. Because I know he’s watching, and I want him to see.
I watch as Austin’s eyes suddenly change, their reflection dulling slightly. As my mind goes into overdrive once more, I feel the power in his grasp as he wraps an arm around my waist, taking me by total surprise.
“I’m going to do something right now, but I need you to trust me, okay?” he says, pressing his lips near my ear as he angles me closer to his body. Honestly, I really don’t care what he says as long as he keeps me this tightly against him. Why is it such a turn-on to have a man with arms like his, strong and solid, pulling me tightly against him?
I’m doing everything in my power to not climb him like a tree, but we’ll keep that to ourselves for right now, shall we?
I don’t respond to his words, instead letting my body go limp, giving him silent permission to do whatever he needs. I’m relieved that I listened to my gut. It’s as if the air has been pulled from the room as he slides his hands gently but decisively across my shoulders, his touch sending shivers down my spine. His fingers trail down my arms, brushing against my skin with a warmth that contrasts with the coolness of the room.
He cups my face with both hands, his thumbs lightly caressing my cheekbones, and tilts my head as his mouth slants across mine. The kiss is slow and deliberate, a tender dance of lips that deepens, a hunger there I hadn’t anticipated. His touch is both electrifying and soothing, as if he’s pulling me into a space where nothing else matters.
When he finally pulls away, I’m left reeling, my senses overwhelmed by the new rush of emotions. I’m so lost in this whirlwind of feeling that I don’t immediately notice Amy standing in the doorway.
“Sorry,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just wanted to let you know I was leaving, Austin…er, Mr. Porter.”
“All good, Amy,” he mutters, his voice a little gravelly as he steps away from me. “Thanks and see you in the next few days?”
