Page 26 of That Moment
Brooklyn has materialized out of nowhere. I offer my best smile. “Peachy.”
Her gaze flicks over my shoulder toward the barn. “He looks peachy, too.”
“Go away.”
She squeals. “You’re glowing.”
“It’s the fire.”
“It’s his hand.” She smirks, wicked. “On your thigh.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I heard you whip out that remember our first kiss line and knew it was about to get good.”
I choke. “You were eavesdropping?”
“God no!” She fake gasps. “I was existing in the general vicinity and you two happened to be having a sexy little conversation that my innocent ears just so happened to overhear.”
“God, this family,” I groan.
“You good though? Not playing with yourself over here?”
“You are ridiculous.” I laugh.
The question is fair, though, because I know damn well if he hadn’t been called away, I might have climbed into his lap right there. I look across the yard at him. The way his shirt strains against his broad shoulders, the easy competence while he talks through some equipment thing with Trent.
“But I promise, I’m good,” I say.
Brooklyn nods once, satisfied. “Okay, then.” She steals the beer from my hand, takes a sip, then gives it back. “Careful, though. That one burns if you hold him too close.”
She slips away, and a minute later Scotty’s back, quicker than I expected, like he rushed just because he said he would. The little thrill that gives me is embarrassing. I let it have me anyway.
“Sorry,” he says, reclaiming the bench next to me. “Trent needed numbers.”
“I survived,” I say, and lift the bottle. “I even guarded your beer.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
The two words coil tight inside me. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say it like that.”
“Like what?” He tips closer, eyes lit with the kind of mischief that wrecks good judgment. “Like I’m thinking about telling you that while you’re on your knees?”
Heat shoots through me so fast it’s dizzying. “You wish.”
“Absofuckinglutely I do.”
Silence stretches between us again. He studies me for a minute, like he’s trying to determine if I’d actually let him kiss me.
“Tell me something true,” he says finally.
I consider the safe answers. I hate olives. I sing in the car like I’m auditioning for a reality show. I secretly love plain shredded wheat. Instead, I say, “I think if you kissed me right now, I’d come.”
His breath leaves him in a rough exhale. “Jesus.”
