The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient 3)

“Hey,” he says, his expression blank with surprise.

My lips form the word hey, but my vocal chords refuse to make a sound. His throat is directly at my eye level, and I’m staring straight at the swirling calligraphy inked into his skin.

Tattoos.

On his neck.

Neck tattoos.

I knew that he had lots of tattoos, but somehow it’s different seeing him—them—in person. Classical musicians don’t get tattooed like this. Or have shaved heads and ride motorcycles and look like sexy villains. None that I know, anyway. One probably exists somewhere. Part of me thought it would be an adventure to try something new and be with a guy like this tonight.

But this doesn’t feel like an adventure.

This feels terrifying.

He’s nothing like Julian, and Julian is all I’ve ever known.

“I was just going to . . .” He points at the door to the men’s room, right next to the women’s room, and his eyes twinkle as his lips curve into a smile, like someone’s just told him a secret.

My frazzled brain malfunctions, and I can’t catch my breath. He’s disastrously gorgeous when he smiles. Something wonderful radiates from the heart of him, realigning the features of his rough exterior and making him beautiful.

“Have you been in there all this time?” he asks.

Too dazed to come up with a suitable lie, I confess, “I was scared.”

His amusement immediately melts away to be replaced with concern. “Of me?”

“No, not of you, not exactly.” In an effort to make him understand, words tumble rapidly from my mouth as I explain, “I’ve never done this before and I had all these ambitious plans but then I saw you and I started to worry I was taking advantage of you and I don’t want to hurt you because you’re so nice and—”

His expression softens with understanding, and he squeezes one of my hands in his. The sensation is so distracting that I completely forget what I was saying.

“Do you want to leave this place?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, so relieved that tears prick at my eyes. More than anything right now, I want to go home.

“Let’s go, then.” Holding my hand, he leads me through the people and out of the bar.

Outside, cool fresh air envelops me. It’s less chaotic, and some of the tension leaks from me. I wouldn’t say I’m relaxed, though. I’m still stressed halfway to death.

“I’m going to go,” I say as I let go of his hand and edge away from him, itching to put everything here behind me. “I’m really sorry. I hope you have better luck with someone else.”

He takes in the movement of my feet on the pavement and then searches my face intently. “We could try again. But only if you want.”

“You’d do that?” I ask, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice. “I just had a panic attack and hid from you in the bathroom for half an hour. You should never want to see me again.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean we need to throw it away. Plus, tonight’s barely started.”

His words catch me off guard, and I stare at him for a moment. I need to run, to escape, to crumple up tonight like a ruined sketch and start with a fresh sheet. And he’s telling me not to. Worse than that, he makes perfect sense. And he’s smiling again, taking my breath away and making me stupid.

Angry discomfort claws through me, and I hate his smile for how much I like it. I know it’s illogical. I know it’s cowardly. But I back away from him farther, shaking my head.

“I’m sorry, but I just . . . can’t. I’m really so sorry,” I say, and I hurry away so I don’t have to see his disappointment.

The journey back to my place goes by in an anxious blur, and when I finally shut myself in my apartment, I take my high heels off and carelessly toss them aside on my way to the bathroom. I peel the red dress off and step into the shower, even though I showered a few hours ago. That’s the routine after I’ve been out—unless I simply don’t have the energy.

As I wash the makeup off my face and rinse the product out of my hair, I grimace at myself. What an abysmal waste. I should be at the bar right now drinking and flirting and being the most authentic version of myself—not to mention preparing to have life-altering adventure sex with an inappropriate yet exceedingly appealing man.

But I’m not. I’m home, where I’m safe. When I curl up on the couch in my pajamas and ugly fluffy bathrobe, I’m so relieved it’s disgusting.