Lost In Me (Here and Now 1)

We take the stairs to the second floor, and I find myself hoping to feel a faulty step or find something I could have tripped over. If I’d passed out from not eating and hadn’t been conscious to catch myself, would that explain the force of my fall?

When we get to the door, I rummage through my purse for my keys, but Max just grins and opens the door with a key on his ring.

He has a key to my apartment. Of course he does. We’re engaged.

He flicks on the lights, illuminating a spacious, open-concept loft. To the left is a little kitchen, the right a living room, and on the back wall, against windows overlooking the New Hope River, a tiny pub-height table and four chairs.

“Wow. This is… Wow.”

He cocks his head, watching me as I take in our surroundings. “Doesn’t ring any bells?”

I frown. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

He nods. We went over this again and again at the hospital. What I remember (everything before a day approximately eleven months ago) and what I don’t remember (everything since), but I imagine this is as difficult for him to comprehend as it is for me.

“Well, this apartment is yours, as is the bakery.”

“I still can’t get over knowing I started my own business.” And not just any business. A bakery. The dream.

He steps closer. “A damn good one,” he whispers.

I tilt my head up to look at him. He’s half a foot taller than me. I wonder if that makes it difficult to kiss while standing. I’m sure I’ve kissed him before. How many hundred times do you kiss a man before wearing his ring?

My heart pounds as his gaze travels from my eyes to my mouth and back. For as sweet as he’s been since I woke up in the hospital, for as many times as he’s kissed my hand or cheek, for as many times as he’s touched me, he has yet to properly kiss me.

And I want to properly kiss Max more than I want to breathe.

Without the memory of his kiss, this might as well be the first time.

He skims his thumbs along either side of my jaw. “When Lizzy called and said you were at the hospital and unconscious, I was so damn worried about you. I felt like I’d lost half of myself. Don’t do that to me again, okay?”

I force a laugh. “Right. I’ll try not to.”

His gaze dips to my mouth again. “I want to hold you and never let go, and at the same time I’m too afraid that if I let myself touch you, I’ll hurt you.”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” I whisper. Kiss me. Please kiss me.

Then he does. He lowers his head and sweeps his lips over mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if he’s done it a million times. His kiss is soft but warm, and I slide my hand into his hair to encourage him. It doesn’t take much before his mouth opens over mine and I can taste his gum, his heat, his carefully harnessed control.

He’s good at this, and my heart quickly goes from a nervous hammering to a stuttering, aroused racing.

He pulls me close until my breasts are pressed against his chest and I can feel the long ridge of his erection against my stomach. When he breaks the kiss and nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck, he leaves one hand at my hip, his thumb skimming the skin just above the band of my jeans.

This is my life. It doesn’t seem possible.

I know he’s holding back, stopping himself. By the way his fingers are curling possessively into my hip, I can tell he wants more—and I want to give him more. My heart stumbles at the idea. More. With Max.

Max lifts his head and runs his gaze over my face. His blue eyes have gone dark and smoky. Is that how he looks at me when I’m naked? God, I hope so. And yet, even with the changes in my body, the idea of his eyes on my nude form makes me painfully self-conscious. I’ve seen the women he’s dated. I’ll never compare to them.

“Do you need to rest or do you want me to stay for a little bit?” There’s a painful edge to his voice.

“Stay.” I flush and my teeth sink into my lip. “I’m a little nervous,” I confess, but even as I say it, I tug his shirt from his pants and slide my hands underneath it. I’ve had a crush on Max since I was thirteen years old, and now I finally have permission to touch him the way I’ve only dreamed of before.

His stomach is washboard flat under my fingertips. As I trace the soft line of hair from his navel to the band of his jeans, his eyes float shut. His breath rushes past his parted lips. I remember admiring these abs when he was working on the deck at Arlen Fisher’s cabin. I guess that would be almost a year ago now. He had sweat trickling down his chest, and he was laughing with William Bailey about something. I remember looking at him and wishing I was the kind of girl he liked. Wishing I stood a chance.

And now I’m wearing his ring.

That knowledge fills me with confidence I never imagined having, and I release the button on his jeans and slide my fingers into the band of his boxers. He hisses and staggers back half a step.