Page 107 of Bottle Shock
We sway—slow, lazy, like the night has all the time in the world.
Her fingers curl around the back of my neck. My hand settles on just above her hip. Our foreheads touch.
“What song is this?” I ask. “I don’t recognize it.”
“It’s the acoustic version of ‘Slow Dancing in a Burning Room’ by John Mayer,” she whispers quietly, her warm breath fanning against me.
“I like it,” I say back.
“The lyrics are kind of sad.” Her voice is so soft I barely hear it, eyes drifting from mine.
I swallow as I tighten my grasp on her, like she might slip away. “What’s it about?”
“The end of a relationship. The moment you know it’s over.” Her gaze meets mine. “Two people who love each other, but they can’t be together. They’re doomed.”
The hair on the back of my neck rises, air freezing in my lungs, heart clenching.
That won’t be us.
I don’t believe in signs or destiny or fate. I believe in choices. And I choose Scottie. In every circumstance, against all odds, against distance and jobs and family and obligations.
I will always choose her.
“Is that what you think?” My throat strains against the burn. “Do you think we’re doomed?”
She eases back, locking her eyes with mine.
“I think it’s just a song with a pretty melody.”
A small, sad smile pulls at her mouth. “I’ve never been good at relationships. I don’t trust easily, and I usually leave before I can get left. And on the rare occasion I don’t catch on fast enough”—she exhales—“I get cheated on.”
She shakes her head, almost at herself. “Sometimes I think I pick the wrong people on purpose. If I don’t like him that much, I can’t fall in love. And if I can’t fall in love, I can’t get hurt.”
I brush a piece of hair behind her ear, slow, like I’m touching something delicate.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her eyes flick up—hope and fear tangled in the deep blue of her irises. “I know,” she whispers. “That’s the scary part.”
I close the distance between us and kiss her.
I kiss her because I have to.
Because I’m in love with her.
And I need her to love me back.
And maybe she never will, but she’ll kiss me.
So I settle for what she’ll let me have.
She opens for me, head angling, deepening the kiss. Her fingers cling to my shirt, fisting it like she needs something to hold onto.
I stroke my tongue against hers, a moan crawling up my throat from somewhere deep.
I get lost in her. Lost in an imaginary world where I get to keep her.
“Oh—oh! I’m so sorry!”
