Walk of Shame (Love Unexpectedly 4)

My heart is pounding in hopeful exhilaration.

“You know why I didn’t reply to your text, Georgiana?” His fingers press against the back of my head, a gentle, insistent pressure.

I shake my head.

“Because when it comes to you, I seem to make a mess of everything. Because saying nothing at all seemed better than saying the wrong thing. And forgive me if I’m wrong here, but the one and only text you sent me wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, am I right?”

I lick my lips nervously. “I may have made a mountain out of a molehill on the whole texting thing.”

His eyebrows lift. “You think?”

“But last night you texted Hailey to ask her out. I saw you,” I say, trying to wriggle away.

His other arm slips around me, his palm settling against my back, holding me still.

“I was pissed,” he says. “I acted rashly.”

I meet his eyes. “Is that a first?”

“Acting rashly? Perhaps. Being annoyed at you? Definitely not.”

“So are you going out with her?” I ask softly.

“I meant to,” he says. “I made reservations. Dressed for it.”

“To punish me.”

He sighs tiredly and rests his forehead against mine. “To move on from you.”

A few minutes ago I was very determined that my sadness wouldn’t kill me, but the happiness I feel right now? That might kill me. I feel like I’m bursting with it.

I lift my hands, settling them against his chest, my eyes locked on the button of his shirt I’ve started fiddling with because I’m also feeling unexpectedly shy. A definite first.

“And have you?” I ask tentatively, not so sure I want to hear the answer.

“Have I what?”

I gather my courage and lift my eyes to find him watching me. “Moved on from me?”

“Funny thing about that,” he says softly. “Seems I found myself canceling on her, and seconds later I was knocking on your door.”

“Probably because you were annoyed with me,” I say, just a tad grumpily.

“Probably,” he repli

es with a slight smile. Then he adds huskily, “I may have misled you about something.”

“Hmm?” I say, still basking in the warmth of his closeness.

“When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”

I’m anticipating the kiss, so the touch of his lips to mine shouldn’t be a shock, but the way the warm pleasure consumes my entire body, lips to toes, is a bit unexpected. Maybe even a bit scary, given how much I’ve been wanting this moment.

Wanting him to want me.

Andrew tilts his head, nudging my lips open with his, and I sigh in pleasure as he deepens the kiss.

If the kiss on the sidewalk was the culmination of sexual frustration, this feels like the culmination of something more important, even though I’m not sure I have a name for it.