We’re a couple of minutes away
from my apartment, which also means we’re almost at the end of our
date. End-of-date protocol often means a goodnight kiss.
And I’ve eaten onions. Lots of
them. What the hell was I thinking? I feel around in my shorts
pocket, hoping I have a random stick of gum. I find a tiny square
packet and pull it out, along with an old tissue. I shove that back
in my pocket and sigh with relief as I carefully open the Listerine
Pocketpak. There’s one strip left. I pop it in my mouth, wishing I
had water since my mouth is dry and I’m suddenly super nervous.
Griffin pulls up in front of my
apartment building. I swallow a bunch of times, trying to get the
strip to dissolve on my tongue and glance out the tinted window,
seeing it from his perspective. I don’t live in a bad part of town,
but I sure as hell wouldn’t leave this car sitting out here for any
length of time unless I wanted it keyed or stripped down.
Griffin shifts into park and
turns to me, one hand resting on the back of my seat near the
headrest. “I had a great time, Cosy.”
“Me too, thanks for dinner.”
I tried to fork over my share, but he was quick on the credit card
draw.
“It was my pleasure.” He
leans in the tiniest bit, a nonverbal cue that he’s going in for a
kiss.
I mirror the movement, giving him
the go ahead. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I exhale slowly
through my nose. Even though the Listerine strip should be doing its
job to mask the onions, I don’t want to ruin the moment by
breathing that in his face.
His fingertips skim my jaw, and I
close my eyes. And then his lips brush my cheek. I wait for them to
move a couple of inches to the right, but after what feels like a lot
of seconds—and is probably only a few—I crack a lid.
Griffin is still close, a wry
smile on his lips and a smolder in his eyes.
“Seriously, that’s it? A kiss
on the cheek?”
His smile widens, making his eyes
crinkle at the corners. He’s nothing like the guys I usually end up
on dates with. College boys don’t take things slow. If I were out
with one of the guys from school, I’d be sitting in a beat-up Civic
with some stupid music playing, and he’d be all over me with his
tongue halfway down my throat, copping a feel.
“I thought all the onions you
ate were the equivalent to garlic for vampires.” Griffin fingers my
hair near my shoulder. I’d really like him to finger something
else. Wait. I mean I’d like to feel his hands on me. Not in my
pants. Okay, maybe I’d like them in my pants, but not after date
number one.
“I wasn’t thinking, and I
really like onions. A lot. In hindsight, it’s not a great date
food. I feel kinda dumb. And I guess at first I wasn’t so sure
about you. How was I supposed to know you’d actually be kind of
normalish?”
“Normalish?”
“Well, you drink club soda on
purpose, so you can’t be all there.” I tap his temple.
Griffin circles my wrist with his
fingers and drops his head, lips brushing over my knuckle. “We
can’t all be perfect, now, can we?”
“I suppose not, and perfect is
boring.”
“That it is.” He hums against
my skin, and I feel it through my entire body. “I would like to try
that kiss again, if you’re still interested.”
From MAKING
UP.
Copyright © 2019 by Helena Hunting and reprinted with permission
from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
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