The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

Her lips landed on mine, freezing both of us to the spot.

I didn’t know what the hell she was doing. All I knew was if her father caught us, I’d be fired and Della wouldn’t be allowed to go to school anymore.

Tripping backward, I wiped my mouth from hers. “What the hell was that?”

“A kiss. But not a very good one.” Her eyes locked on my lips. “Want to try again?”

I wanted to scold her like I’d scold Della for doing something I wasn’t comfortable with. Instead, common-sense drowned beneath hot, hard need and my silence answered for me.

My brain emptied of reasons and rationality, and even the fear of ruining the bargain I’d made for Della’s benefit didn’t entice me to run.

Slowly, hesitantly, she stepped toward me again. Her hands fluttered by her sides, and my heart winged like a trapped bird. We didn’t speak as she stopped with her shoes touching mine.

I wanted to stop her.

I wanted to grab her.

I stayed locked in stone as she once again balanced on her toes and pressed her lips to mine.

This time, I didn’t stumble away, and she didn’t disappear.

She smelled sweet and young and innocent. My eyes hooded, wanting to close, but I kept them open. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do and didn’t want to insult her by shutting her out.

With a soft breath, she moved closer, her chest brushing mine, twin roundness so different to my flat hardness. My arms twitched to encircle her, but I couldn’t move.

My jeans hurt as my body swelled beyond normal. I wanted to readjust myself but daren’t move in case she stopped whatever magic this was.

And then, the softest sweep of warm wetness and my eyes snapped shut on their own accord. Her tongue came again, and I gasped, opening my lips, letting her tentative quest go deeper.

My first kiss.

And hell, it was better than anything I’d experienced.

Cassie moaned as my tongue moved to meet hers—testing, learning, tasting. We stood there, hidden behind the tractor and kissed awkwardly, but somehow, that awkwardness only added to the blistering awareness and want.

My fingers curled to push her against the wall and kiss her harder.

My lungs gulped air to stop from going light-headed.

We slowly learned the other, and when it was over, Cassie smiled softer, happier than I’d seen. Her eyes were dewy. Her mouth wet from mine. Her steps floaty as she nodded once and whispered, “Thanks for my New Year’s kiss, Ren.”

With a lingering look, she left me to pick up my brain from the hay-dusted floor, wrangle the unbearable ache in my jeans, and somehow remember how to work.

* * * * *

That night, Della was subdued and not her usual self.

It took everything I had to lavish her with attention and be as supportive as I could when the only thing on my mind was a repeat of the kiss this afternoon.

When Della threw aside one of the few books we’d brought with us from Polcart Farm and curled into a tight ball, shutting me out and not responding to any of my suggestions to play, I lost my temper a little.

She wasn’t sick. She didn’t have a fever. She was just being a spoiled little brat, and I didn’t have time to offer her stories or promises to do anything she wanted when all I earned was her skinny back and a savage little growl.

Leaving her to pout and deal with whatever mood she was in, I returned to the barn and found solace in Cassie’s horses.

I didn’t know their names, but they stuck their heads over the partition, nickering in the night for treats.

Stroking their velvet muzzles, I allowed the urge to spill my annoyance about Della’s attitude to blend with the amazement of indulging in my first kiss.

The two extremes kept me standing there long into the night.

Confused.

Elated.

Frustrated.

And most of all, wary of what other surprises this New Year would bring.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

DELLA

* * * * * *

Present Day

SO YEAH, I’VE been dreading writing this next part.

I’ve kind of been putting it off if I’m honest. Even knowing I’m never going to show you this assignment, it doesn’t make typing it any easier.

I suppose there is no easy way to say this, so I’ll ask a question instead.

How many times do you think a person can survive a broken heart?

Any ideas?

I would like to know because Ren has successfully broken mine, repaired it, shattered mine, fixed it, crushed mine, and somehow glued it back together again and again.

Then again, I don’t need an answer to that question.

I’m living proof that a heart can be broken a thousand times and still function, still keep you alive—desperately hoping that it won’t happen again, all the while knowing it will.

That cracking pain. That nicking, awful slicing has become horribly familiar to me now. I suppose my predicament could be seen as terribly romantic or horrendously stupid.