The Art of Wishing

The Art of Wishing by Lindsay Ribar Page B

Book: The Art of Wishing by Lindsay Ribar Read Free Book Online
Authors: Lindsay Ribar
went still again, and indecision furrowed his brow. His pretty green eyes shone under the parking lot streetlight as they searched mine for . . . something. I didn’t know what, and I didn’t ask. I was too busy reminding myself to breathe.
    And then he moved toward me. He leaned down, so his face was only inches away from mine. “Just for the record,” he whispered, his breath fogging the night air between us, “this is a very bad idea.”

Chapter EIGHT
    I t was a good kiss. I mean, a good freaking kiss. The kind of kiss where I didn’t even care how much time we had together, because as long as I could feel his lips against mine, time didn’t matter at all. He followed my lead, responding almost instinctively when I paused for breath, when I leaned into him, when I tilted my head just so.
    And he kissed with his eyes closed, which meant I could peek at him without him seeing. Even when I couldn’t see his eyes, he was . . . I didn’t know what he was. I wasn’t sure there was even a word for it.
    But before I could figure out the language of my thoughts, Oliver’s hand touched the back of my neck. It was a feather-light touch of fingertips on skin, but the surge of warmth that followed made me draw in a sharp breath. Just like when he’d held my hand in the park, only more.
    Oliver broke the kiss, but he left his hand where it was, brushing his fingers lightly up and down my neck. A sly, almost wicked smile was creeping across his face, which confused me until I realized why. I was thinking very hard about how I wanted him to keep doing that—and he could hear me.
    I couldn’t help it; I laughed. The sound quickly faded into a happy little sigh, and I took another moment to savor the strange feeling of magic on my skin, before pulling him down into another kiss.
    His hand strayed from the back of my neck to the front, and it occurred to me that it was really too bad it was winter, as there were several bulky layers between Oliver’s hands and the rest of my skin. But hey, at least I hadn’t worn a scarf—or, even worse, a turtleneck.
    When his fingertips began to trace the line of my jaw, I felt him go still. This time I pulled away before he could. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    He cupped my cheek in his hand. “You’re cold.”
    “I think I’ll live,” I said. I couldn’t feel the cold at all. There were far more important things happening here.
    But when he let go of me, all at once I did feel it. It was colder than before, if that was even possible. “Seriously,” he said, “you should probably head home. I don’t want you to get sick or anything.”
    I smirked at him. “Is that your way of saying
cold, but you’re too manly to admit it?”
    “I’m not manly,” he retorted, then paused. “That came out wrong.”
    “Of course it did,” I said, fighting the giggles bubbling up inside me. “You are the most manly. The absolute manliest.”
    His eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me.”
    “Never,” I said solemnly.
    The corner of his lip curved, but he managed to keep his expression aloof. “What I meant to say is, I don’t get cold. And even if I did, I’m not the one who has to worry about keeping my singing voice in good shape.”
    “Wait . . . you don’t get cold?”
    He shook his head. “Not unless I want to. My magic lets me shield myself from outside elements, at least physically. It gets too cold, I can warm myself up. I get a paper cut, I can mend my skin. Somebody chops my arm off, I can grow a new one. Well, probably. I haven’t tested that one yet, and I’m not exactly in a hurry to.”
    “That’s nuts,” I said. Curious, I touched my hand to his cheek. He was just as warm as if we’d been inside this whole time. “Want to use some of that super-genie-magic to warm me up, too?”
    “Do I want to? Yes. But sorry, no can do,” he added apologetically.
    “Oh, right,” I said, remembering
. “No freebies. Sorry, it was probably rude

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