optimist in me thinks he looks hurt. The pessimist in me knows better.
“Yeah, but it’s not what you think.”
Oh really? “So what do I think?” This should be interesting.
He smiles and there’s that one crooked tooth again. It reminds me of my recent revelation that I hate perfect things. In fact, even if you asked me tomorrow when I’m completely sober, I’d still tell you that perfect things make me want to scream.
“Are you…jealous or something?”
I shrug and try to look as if I don’t care. Which I don’t. But I kind of do. Which is stupid, I know. Even in my semi-wasted condition, I can tell you that. “Jealous? Hardly.”
Jon’s expression goes from joking to serious, reminding me of the way he looked when he helped me off the roof. His eyebrows pull together and his eyes narrow slightly. He doesn’t blink. He just stares, his gaze moving over my entire face as if he’s committing it to memory.
My cheeks heat up. My scalp tingles.
I can’t tell if I just made him mad or if he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m telling him the truth. He puts a hand on the wall next to my head and leans in close. My heartbeat is seriously pounding against my eardrums right now—so loud that I can hardly hear.
“I think you think there’s something going on between Sara and me, am I right?”
He smells minty, like he’s been chewing gum. And soapy, like he just washed his hands. It’s cool—really cool—that he doesn’t smell of strong aftershave or cologne.
I don’t answer.
“There’s not,” he says. “I was waiting for friends and she invited herself to my table. But if you don’t believe me, check out who she’s dancing with now.”
He moves just enough so that I can see Sara on the dance floor. And yeah. She’s Channing all over some dude’s Tatum.
“That’s my friend James,” he explains. “He’s hoping to get lucky tonight.”
It certainly looks like that’s where it’s headed.
Jon turns his attention back to me. “So, do I get to kiss the birthday girl?”
At the word kiss , my gaze drops to his mouth. Forget what I said about being able to hear my heart pounding against my eardrums. I’m pretty sure it stopped beating altogether just now. His bottom lip is fuller than his upper lip, and I wonder how it would feel moving against my own.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” God, that sounds lame. I blame the Buttery Nipple.
He flattens his other palm on the wall next to my head, caging me in without touching me. His elbows are slightly bent. If I wanted to, I could slide down a few inches, dip under his arm, and be free. I don’t want to, but it’s nice having that option.
His breath is warm on my cheek, making a few loose strands of my hair stick to the lip balm I just applied. He reaches up and, with a feather-light touch of his thumb, gently strokes them away. My lips part. I shiver. Even though we’re in the back of a crowded college dive bar, it feels as if it’s just the two of us.
“Say yes, Ivy.”
Are you kidding me? I want him to kiss me. And it’s not just the alcohol talking. A completely sober me would want the same thing.
I nod.
He’s looking at my mouth, his nostrils slightly flared. “I want you to say it, though.”
I think the butterflies in my lower belly just guzzled a whole case of Red Bull.
“Yes, Jon, I want you to kiss me,” I say breathlessly, aware that I’ve given him more than the one-word answer he was probably expecting.
He groans. Sucks in a breath. Then he bends his elbows until his mouth is less than an inch from mine. I’m breathing in his air and he’s breathing in mine.
“Happy twenty-first birthday, Ivy.” Then he closes the space between us.
Jon’s a good kisser.
A really good kisser.
Did I say he’s a good kisser?
At first he’s a total gentleman, his lips soft, just as I’d imagined they’d be. My mouth automatically matches the rhythm of his. And that’s when I feel his
“Yeah, but it’s not what you think.”
Oh really? “So what do I think?” This should be interesting.
He smiles and there’s that one crooked tooth again. It reminds me of my recent revelation that I hate perfect things. In fact, even if you asked me tomorrow when I’m completely sober, I’d still tell you that perfect things make me want to scream.
“Are you…jealous or something?”
I shrug and try to look as if I don’t care. Which I don’t. But I kind of do. Which is stupid, I know. Even in my semi-wasted condition, I can tell you that. “Jealous? Hardly.”
Jon’s expression goes from joking to serious, reminding me of the way he looked when he helped me off the roof. His eyebrows pull together and his eyes narrow slightly. He doesn’t blink. He just stares, his gaze moving over my entire face as if he’s committing it to memory.
My cheeks heat up. My scalp tingles.
I can’t tell if I just made him mad or if he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m telling him the truth. He puts a hand on the wall next to my head and leans in close. My heartbeat is seriously pounding against my eardrums right now—so loud that I can hardly hear.
“I think you think there’s something going on between Sara and me, am I right?”
He smells minty, like he’s been chewing gum. And soapy, like he just washed his hands. It’s cool—really cool—that he doesn’t smell of strong aftershave or cologne.
I don’t answer.
“There’s not,” he says. “I was waiting for friends and she invited herself to my table. But if you don’t believe me, check out who she’s dancing with now.”
He moves just enough so that I can see Sara on the dance floor. And yeah. She’s Channing all over some dude’s Tatum.
“That’s my friend James,” he explains. “He’s hoping to get lucky tonight.”
It certainly looks like that’s where it’s headed.
Jon turns his attention back to me. “So, do I get to kiss the birthday girl?”
At the word kiss , my gaze drops to his mouth. Forget what I said about being able to hear my heart pounding against my eardrums. I’m pretty sure it stopped beating altogether just now. His bottom lip is fuller than his upper lip, and I wonder how it would feel moving against my own.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” God, that sounds lame. I blame the Buttery Nipple.
He flattens his other palm on the wall next to my head, caging me in without touching me. His elbows are slightly bent. If I wanted to, I could slide down a few inches, dip under his arm, and be free. I don’t want to, but it’s nice having that option.
His breath is warm on my cheek, making a few loose strands of my hair stick to the lip balm I just applied. He reaches up and, with a feather-light touch of his thumb, gently strokes them away. My lips part. I shiver. Even though we’re in the back of a crowded college dive bar, it feels as if it’s just the two of us.
“Say yes, Ivy.”
Are you kidding me? I want him to kiss me. And it’s not just the alcohol talking. A completely sober me would want the same thing.
I nod.
He’s looking at my mouth, his nostrils slightly flared. “I want you to say it, though.”
I think the butterflies in my lower belly just guzzled a whole case of Red Bull.
“Yes, Jon, I want you to kiss me,” I say breathlessly, aware that I’ve given him more than the one-word answer he was probably expecting.
He groans. Sucks in a breath. Then he bends his elbows until his mouth is less than an inch from mine. I’m breathing in his air and he’s breathing in mine.
“Happy twenty-first birthday, Ivy.” Then he closes the space between us.
Jon’s a good kisser.
A really good kisser.
Did I say he’s a good kisser?
At first he’s a total gentleman, his lips soft, just as I’d imagined they’d be. My mouth automatically matches the rhythm of his. And that’s when I feel his
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