Page 19 of The Worst Kind of Promise
Kit raises his arms in surrender. “You’re right. I should be thanking them for getting rid of your skunk breath,” he jests.
Gasping, I do a quick breath test—which I pass with flying colors, thank you very much—then I jab him in the ribs with my knife hand. “You take it back!”
He winces dramatically. “Ah! Why are your fingers so bony? And why do you always feel the need to resort to physical violence?”
I threaten him with another attack. “Because you’re the only person in this entire world that incites enough annoyance in me toneedto resort to physical violence,” I grumble. I think the fumes of my irritation are poisoning my sensibility, because my fingers have this itch to leap into the hard curve of his side and discover whether or not he’s as ticklish as he looks. And that’s bad information for me to have. In fact, anything having to do with Kit’s body is a topic that needs to be stuffed in a safe, smothered in chains, and thrown into the deepest reservoir.
“Being annoying is my friend-given right,” he declares with gusto, devilry twinkling in his eyes.
I swallow another piece of candy, though the sugar doesn’t seem nearly as overpowering as the flame-hot desire boiling in my chest. “You know, I can revoke that title at any moment.”
“You could, but you like me too much.”
He’s right. He’s right, and I hate it. I don’t think Kit fully understands the effect he has on women. I’m pretty sure all he needs to do is bat his lashes and toss in a few flirty smiles to attract hordes of women to him like seagulls flocking to a piece of bread. I bet his pheromones could be weaponized.
“You’re infuriating,” I complain, stowing my Junior Mints in the door compartment. Feet free and legs tingly, I draw my knees to my chest, attempting to find a comfortable position for the next few hours.
Kit flicks his candy wrapper to the floor, then starts the car. “You’re adorable.”
I scoff. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Flattery gets meeverywhere.”
Dear God. Breaking things off is easier when your body isn’t fighting you every step of the way. The concerningly high heart rate, the jolting pulse, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth. Kit doesn’t realize how bad I have it for him.
“Not with me,” I say, but my pitch fluctuates to an embarrassing register. “I’m a hard woman to please.”
A knee-weakening smirk strikes me down like a bolt of lightning. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
I feel the aftershocks in the tips of my toes and fingers, feel the subsequent swell of heat reside beneath clammy skin. For the first time, I don’t have a snappy comeback. All I can think about is the kiss we shared in the hotel room—how our lips met each other like long-lost lovers, how our bodies melded together with each stroke and sentiment, how I wanted to chase that Kit high for the rest of my life.
Road weary and in need of a good night’s sleep—or three—I allow myself to drift into unconsciousness as dusk rolls through the sky. The bump and swerve of the road becomes home to me for the rest of the journey, with the occasional stop for the bathroom or more snacks.
The closer we get to our destination, the more nervous I become. This is set for inevitable disaster.
NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART
KIT
Two hours out. Two hours, and then I’ll have to share Faye for the rest of the summer.
Even though she’s been busting my balls this entire road trip (in more ways than one), I wouldn’t trade our time for anything in the world.
She looks so peaceful when she’s sleeping. The slight rumble of her snore, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she curls further in on herself whenever we hit a pothole or sharp turn. I’m crazy about her. So crazy that my heart hurts whenever I remember she’s not mine to have.
I pull into a parking spot right in front of Starbucks, kill the engine, then spend about two prolonged minutes staring at her. I haven’t been able to get that kiss out of my mind. It was life-changing in so many ways for something so simple, so human. I’ve never felt more at peace than when she’s in my arms. She’s my sun, and I’m the idiot orbiting around her.
I gently wiggle her foot, and it takes about a second of consistent shaking before her eyes snap open and she pins me with a withering glare.
“Can I help you?” she grouses, the groggy rasp of her voice making my boxers suddenly feel way too tight.
“I’d be a lot nicer to me considering I’m the one driving you,” I say.
She simply rolls her eyes and stifles a yawn, shoulders the door open, then stretches out her legs like she’s the one who’s been suffering from a lack of legroom. “How close are we?”
I mirror her with a stretch of my own, but unlike her, I crack about every bone in my body. “About two hours out.”
“Are you sure the guys are okay with me crashing their summer?” she asks, flattening down a rumpled tress of hair sticking up on her head. She checks for any other deviants in a preening manner, then smooths down her tiny tank top. The embroidered daisy in the center of her shirt, right between her small, perky breasts, catches my wandering eye. The neckline has fallen a bit, revealing the tops of her neon-colored bra cups—which I can see anyways through the practically translucent fabric.
