CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

ZOEY

Did I have to kiss him? Probably not. But given the way he responds—shock yielding to an embrace, his hands spanning the length of my back and sending warmth through my body—I regret nothing.

I was going to count five Mississippis but after the first Mississippi I’ve lost track. His lips are soft and welcoming as we slide right into a real kiss. At least, it feels like a real one to me. My heart flutters rapidly and the pulse of it fuels our movements as we take turns brushing our lips against each other’s. If I’d actually been greeting the person I was dating, it would not have gone on for this long, and I definitely wouldn’t have straddled him.

But I’m not greeting him, I’m claiming him.

He’d looked so lost. So outnumbered.

It reminded me of dinner with my parents last night. He’d gotten me through it, and I wanted to do the same for him, repercussions be damned.

The good news: Miles can kiss.

The bonus: He chose today of all days to order a cinnamon sugar vegan doughnut. I’ve been wanting to sample one, and now, in a sense, I have.

Delicious.

For the briefest moment, I imagine we’ve been transported someplace private. Some place where we don’t have to stop. His dark hair is soft and thick in my fingers, and I fight the urge to make a glorious mess of it, make it look the way it did the day we met. Remembering that day, the way we went for each other’s throats before even knowing each other’s names, makes me kiss him harder, and it’s the sweetest vengeance I’ve ever experienced.

When we pull apart, I’m hyperaware of my breathing. It’s second nature to reach out and touch his lip, to steal the last of the powdered sugar at the corner of his mouth. I smile at him in a manner that can only be construed as, “Yum.” He stares back, his rich brown eyes bright with pleasure and surprise, taking me in. It’s hard to pull my gaze away. I like the way he’s looking at me. So much so, I have to remind myself it was a ruse; a onetime act of compassion.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi yourself,” Miles replies, sounding dazed.

A cough cuts through my self-induced fog. Jordan.

“How come you never say hi to me that way, babe?” Jordan’s baby daddy—excuse me, Yoga Doug—says, and elbows her in the ribs.

She ignores him, her eyes on me. “How’d you two . . . meet?”

I slither into the seat next to Miles and lean forward, propping my hands under my chin. “Oh my gosh, it’s the cutest story. Where to start?”

I can feel Miles’s eyes on me and decide to needle him a little.