Page 69 of Kiss the Girl
We came up for air eventually, one of our phones buzzing persistently.
Somehow, we’d ended up flat on the sofa, Noah’s legs hanging over the arm behind him, throw pillows thrown. He lifted himself onto his elbows and pressed his forehead against mine, eyes closed, taking a few deep breaths, the kind I took when I needed to steady myself.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to disappear into someone so completely that time didn’t pass anymore. Maybe it was because I’d never connected with someone like this enough to remember.
I loved that I had done this to him, had scratched beneath the surface of the cheerful PE teacher and game night buddy to discover that Noah Redmond was a stellar makeout.
He straightened and shifted back into his corner of the couch. I scooched up so my back was against the armrest on my end and tucked my toes beneath his thigh.
“Wow, coach.” I smirked at him. I couldn’t help it. “I see why they put you in charge of wrestling.”
“Grace.” This time my name was a half-groan, half-laugh.
“Yeah, coach?”
“I’m twenty-seven. Wasn’t I supposed to outgrow making out on my girlfriend’s couch with her parents in the other room years ago?”
“One, I’m not your girlfriend. Two, don’t worry about it. They’re downstairs. They’d have to knock to get in.”
He tugged at the neckline of his shirt like it was making him suddenly uncomfortable. “Grace…”
I dropped my head back to the sofa arm with a groan.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Your tone. You’re about to say something responsible. I can tell.” I lifted my head and scowled. “For a simple guy, you sure like to complicate things.”
“No, I like them to be simple. So let’s DTR.”
“No. Oh, heck no. I haven’t done anything to deserve a ‘define the relationship’ talk. I’m a good person who took care of her cancer daddy, and I shouldn’t be punished.” I pulled my hands inside my sweatshirt and wrapped them around my knees, then glared at him over the top of them.
“But if we name things, it’s not confusing later. No misunderstandings, no miscommunication.” He looked at me like he must look at his players when he was expecting them to grow up and do better, a look that said he expected my best.
“Fine,” I said, reclaiming my sweatshirt sleeves and sitting up straight like a grown adult. “I define us as make out buddies. We make out when we feel like it—”
“So, like, always?” he interrupted, and it made my belly tingle.
“When we feel like it,” I continued, trying not to blush, because how was I blushing when this man now knew my mouth better than my toothbrush did? “And it’s fun, and then after New Year’s, I leave Creekville, and we’ll say to ourselves, ‘That was a fun time we had making out,’ and it’s all simple. See?”
“Is that what we’ll say to ourselves?” he repeated, trying not to laugh. “In my head, I’m saying stuff more like, ‘Damn, that was hot.’ Just me?”
“Possibly not,” I conceded, feeling myself go even redder. “But I’m being serious. What if this is a fling? Makeouts only, so things don’t get complicated. But I’m all for some excellent making out.” I couldn’t believe how much I wanted him to go for this ridiculous pitch.
“I’m not a casual relationship guy,” he said.
“But this is the perfect situation because it has a built-in expiration date; it’s all the fun with none of the commitment, and neither of us will have hard feelings because you’re making us define the relationship right now, which I agree now was genius.”
It should have been a no-brainer, but not for Noah, apparently.
He got up and scrubbed his hands over his face for a second. “I need to think about it.”
It would have stung my ego if I didn’t know he was speaking from his “fundamentally decent human being” wiring.
“Noah…” And now it was my turn to half-laugh, half-groan his name.
“I know,” he grumbled. “I’m positive I’m going to kick myself for being an idiot the second I walk out.”
I stood to walk him to the door and tried to fight the impulse to strangle him. Or jump him? I couldn’t tell which I wanted to do more.
