Page 88 of One Small Spark
I snort. “They’re not very good at butting into people’s lives.”
“Their plan was a success.”
He’s right. We had dinner together at a small table in low lighting and held hands through half of it. They would be screaming and jumping up and down if they knew.
“When are you going to let them know the truth?”
Why does his question feel like he’s asking about more than just our scheming friends? And why do I not have an answer? I can’t just blurt out what’s going on in my private life to people. Mostly because I’m not entirely sure myself.
“I’m going to let them simmer for a while,” I say.
A description that applies equally to me.
The check arrives, and Shepherd lays down his credit card.
I grab my wristlet wallet next to me. “We can split it.”
“I’ve got it.”
“But I still owe you for that drink.” I think about the way he stepped in with the guy at the bar. All protective and territorial and handsome. I just blur out the rest of the evening when I reminisce.
His smirk makes my heart flutter. “You can still buy me a drink sometime, Wren.”
Well. Okay, then.
When we get up to leave the table, our hands lock between us like this kind of PDA is something we do all the time. Natural. Not at all making a strange tingling sensation rush through my body like I just took a leap off a bridge with a bungee cord attached to myankles.
Or so I’d imagine.
In the parking lot, I guide us to my car while we work out days for him to get my bike and for the hot springs excursion he’s so excited about. That one’s tougher, since we both need the day off, but we manage to find times that line up.
And it’s not nearly enough. I’ll see him in a few days at my house for the bike. A handful of days after that, we’ll go to the hot springs. But all I can think about are the stretch of days in between.
I used to hate this man’s face. Kind of. And now, the thought of not seeing it for more than a few hours makes me curiously sad.
We reach my car but don’t let go of each other.
“Thanks for letting Isabel and the others coerce you into taking me to dinner.” I gaze up at him, telegraphing my hope for a goodnight kiss loud and clear.
“No coercion necessary, Wren.” He gazes back, no doubt calculating just how slowly he can make his move.
I hate waiting.
So why am I? I’ve let him take control before, but that doesn’t mean he gets to keep it forever. It’s my turn again.
I reach up to take his face in both my hands. Ugh, this man is the cutest. With his messy hair and dark, broody eyes. His beard I want to run my fingers over until he purrs like a cat. His mouth with the bottom lip a little fuller than the top. He is exceptionally kissable.
So I indulge.
I pull him down to meet me, our mouths pressing together as his hands find my waist. He lets me take charge, following along where I lead. Gentle kisses here. A little more passion there. I lick the edge of his lower lip, and he groans open for me.
I thought I wanted to move to the alley. Then, I wanted to live in the doorway of his cabin. Now, this parking lot is prettyexcellent. I just want to be wherever Shepherd Callahan is kissing me.
This is right. This is good. We should kiss like this every night.
But probably not in front of a busy restaurant downtown. A car honks as it drives by, breaking the spell we were under. We pull apart just enough to see each other clearly.
“Goodnight, Wren.”
