Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Of course, Nonnie notices. We’re in the middle of our Monday night true crime binge when she pauses the TV, turns to me, and gives me the full-laser grandmother stare. “You and Preston seem to have gotten pretty close,” she says, no room for debate.
“We have,” I agree, wondering where she’s going.
“And you’re in love with him.” I can tell from her steady stare that she already knows the answer.
“I am,” I admit, staring into my mug of hot chocolate like it’s going to offer up answers.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Isn’t it weird? Being this happy? With a guy I’ve known for, what, a month?”
She hums, considering this. “Sometimes, you just know. And sometimes, you try to logic your way out of good things because you’re scared. Darling, sometimes, a peach cobbler is just a peach cobbler. Stop trying to add kale to it.”
I snort, and she throws an arm around my shoulder, squeezing until my bones rattle.
“Hazel, listen to me. You’re not your mother. You’re not going to lose yourself in a man. If you love him, let yourself love him. Life’s too short for all that overthinking.”
It’s solid advice, but the part of me that thrives on anxiety isn’t quite ready to surrender. So, I keep looking for the catch, the fine print, the hidden expiration date.
Preston never shows up empty-handed. Sometimes, it’s flowers, or gummy Nerds, or a book I’m dying to read. He makes me feel like the center of his universe, and even my overactive insecurities start to run out of steam.
On the fourth Friday, he comes to pick me up for our date at the local art museum, and I’m so excited that I forget to double-check my hair. He shows up with a single sunflower, and I melt, instantly. The museum is holding a “Night at the Gallery” event with wine and live jazz. He doesn’t even pretend to be interested in the art. He holds my hand tight as we wander from painting to painting.
Later, we share dessert at a rooftop bar.
He slides his hand over mine, thumb gently circling my wrist. “You know,” he says, eyes fixed on me, “I’ll never get enough of you.”
I nearly choke on my crème Brûlée. “That’s intense.” And maybe a little scary because I feel the same way.
“I know. But it’s true.”
I should say something. I should be honest and brave. Instead, I look away, watching the city lights shimmer across the river. My heart is beating so fast; I think he must hear it.
He waits a long time before saying, “It’s okay if you need more time. I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s the problem, I want to say. I believe him. I do. And that’s scarier than anything.
After our dates, he always walks me up to my door. Sometimes, he’ll kiss me goodnight, soft and lingering; other times, it’s intense and passionate. There are also times he just stands there, as if he can’t bear to leave. One night, after hours of flirting and teasing, I can’t take it anymore. I grab him by the collar and yank him inside, breathless, melting against him as my mouth crashes into his.
I kiss him hard, until my lips spark and go numb, until my hands are fisted in his shirt and he's stumbling backward, dragging both of us down onto the sofa. The room fades, swallowed by the heat of his mouth and the press of his body, and my head spins. He hauls me into his lap, hands tight around my waist, and I press against him, hungry for more. The world narrows to the taste of him, the tangle of limbs, the rush of want vibrating under my skin.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, digging my fingers into his soft hair a little harder than I mean to. “I’m ready for more,” I say, staring into his eyes. “But you should know, I’ve never done this before, and I’m scared I’ll be horrible at it.”
He gives a low laugh, leaning in until our faces are barely an inch apart. “You couldn’t mess this up if you tried.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s not a gentle, testing-the-waters kiss. It’s a kiss that says, I have been waiting my entire life for this, and I am not waiting another second. His hands drag through my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth moves on mine, hot and hungry. I make a noise I didn’t know I could make, and he groans, biting my lower lip.
We break apart, gasping, and I realize I’m plastered across his body. “Wow,” I whisper.
He smirks. “Just wow?”
“Double wow,” I say, and drag him back in for more. “Now shut up and kiss me again.”
His lips find mine, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his hips and hold on as he carries me across the living room. The second we’re inside my bedroom, he presses me up against the wall and kisses his way down my neck. My eyes cross when his warm hands slide under my T-shirt. I gasp his name. His hands are hot and greedy, spreading across my stomach, inching higher.