The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

“I did.” His voice is warm and rich.

Something changes between us, and I can feel the moment we both realize that we are completely alone in this house and no one will burst in and interrupt a kiss this time. Chill bumps fly across my skin as Jake brushes my hair away from my face and neck and then leans down. But he doesn’t kiss my mouth. Nooo, that would be way too obvious a choice for him. Instead, Jake moves right on by my lips and goes to my neck, placing a light, lingering kiss right below my jaw. His lips are warm, and I can feel his day-old stubble tickling my neck where he’s placing slow, heart-melting kisses.

I tip my head back to give him a better vantage point. He puts his hands on my hips and pulls me closer. His kisses are moving up toward my mouth, and as much as I’m loving this slow torture, I’m finding it hard not to tap my foot and tell him to move on to the main event.

He and I have kissed twice now, but both of those were nothing. I’m ready to find out what a real kiss is from Jacob Broaden.

Just as his mouth is rounding my jaw, I become aware of a bubbling sound on the stove. “I think something is boiling,” I say.

“Mmhhmm,” he murmurs against my cheek.

“Is that a bad thing?” I don’t know why I’m suddenly so concerned with food prep. Actually, it probably has something to do with the way my nervous heart is about to explode from my chest.

“It’s fine.” He sounds like he’s in a coma.

“Are you sure? Because—” I don’t get to finish my thought.

Jake’s lips take mine, and all thoughts of dinner are behind me. In fact, I don’t think I ever need to eat again. I’ll just stay here and keep kissing Jake for the rest of my life, and I’m pretty sure that will be enough to sustain me.

He pulls me flush with his body, and together, our kiss feels like a deep exhale. Like life has turned fuzzy around the edges and nothing else matters anymore. Except, he’s too tall. I hook my arm around his neck to help pull him down to me, but Jake responds to my dilemma by picking me up and setting me on the counter in front of him.

My hands run over the tight ridges and valleys of Jake’s shoulders, and I can’t believe that I’m even allowed to touch this work of art. He should be boxed up and sent off to a museum where he can be adequately appreciated. I lace my fingers in the back of his hair and breathe in his clean scent. Jake’s lips move, both soft and fierce like the tides of the ocean, and I fall into them and swim.

I can hear something on the stove bubbling into a frenzy, and I can’t help thinking that whatever is cooking is perfectly mirroring Jake’s and my kiss, because let me tell you, it’s sizzling. I wind my arms tightly around his neck with a grip that says you’re not going anywhere. He moves his hands up and down my back, pressing in and tugging me closer, and our lips part. And just like a three-Michelin-star chef, I’m able to taste the notes of everything he’s been cooking.

As the minutes go by and Jake and I are lost in each other, I can’t help but think of how surreal this feels. How perfect. I should have known. I should have prepared for how I would feel after a kiss like this with him, because Jake is an overachiever, and I feel a little in awe of him.

When I’m with Jake, I’m starting to have these feelings that scare me. They are possessive, and wanting, and wishing to claim Jake as mine.

And now I’m kissing him with the intent to brand him. I want everyone to be able to look at him and see my kiss planted across his lips and know that he’s taken. I think Jake can read my thoughts (or my body language) because, suddenly, he’s slowing things down. The weight of his hands splayed out against my back is lightening up, and I can tell he’s putting on the brakes. He’s not letting this go too far, and dang it if that doesn’t make me like him even more.

He slowly breaks the seal of our kiss, and I can’t open my eyes. They are too heavy and kiss-induced to function properly yet. His hand moves to cup my jaw, and I feel his thumb tenderly caress my cheek as he says, “Let’s take it slow, Evie.” The way he says it, though—with a low, raspy voice—knots my breath and instantly makes me wish we were still kissing.

But with my eyes shut, I nod my head in agreement because I am in agreement. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what kind of girl I am: the go-slow kind. The old-fashioned kind. The ring-on-her-finger kind. I say pretty sure because I honestly forgot there, for a minute, but now I’m emerging from the most devastating, tender, passionate kiss of my life, and I think I can remember my full name again.

I open my eyes and find Jake giving me a lopsided grin that says he knows what effect he’s just had on me.

“Slow,” I repeat back to him like English is not my first language and I’m trying to commit this new foreign word to memory.

He smiles bigger and shakes his head a little, stepping back, and taking all of his fantastic body with him. With the new, cool air comes the feeling of embarrassment. I can feel that my lips are swollen and my cheeks are pink, and just a minute ago, Jake felt the need to remind me that we should take things slow…which means he was aware that I had my blinker on and was ready to change over to the HOV lane. Move over, slowpokes.

But I push that embarrassment right back down because I know that Jake wanted that kiss too. He wanted the HOV lane. And the fact that a man like him—wonderful and handsome and a champion kisser—could have used this opportunity of my kiss coma for his own gain, but instead chose to restrain…well, that’s filling me with all sorts of warm

feelings. I don’t want to let him go. I don’t want to lay my head on my pillow tonight and wonder or leave any room for doubt.

“Jake,” I say, reaching out and grabbing his hand before he fully turns away. He turns back, and his eyes say, Why yes, I would love to kiss you some more. For a moment, I think that sounds like a great idea, but I hurry and speak up before he or I get a chance to act on that thought. “What are we?” There we go. It’s out now.

His brows pull together, and a thoughtful expression clouds his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I know this is only our first date, but…I guess…I don’t know.” A-plus conversational skills are happening over here. Really top-notch stuff.

The problem is, I’m scared. I’m scared that making him Define The Relationship will scare him off. Because in history, this is the moment all of my dates bail. It’s like they see me approaching with a giant, man-sized net and think, No way am I getting trapped in that one.

“You want to know where this is going?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he sounds hesitant or not.

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

He bites his lips together and nods. He turns away, and I think that maybe I’ve annoyed him, but when he shuts off the burner and takes whatever has been furiously boiling off of it, I realize he’s just getting settled in. He turns around and takes both of my hands, pulling me back up to his warm body, and I wrap both of my arms around his waist. I like this. I like that I get to do this. It feels natural and new—but also like we’ve been doing this forever.