Conventionally Yours (True Colors 1)

“Sorry.” I really was the worst. The things I’d ruined simply by opening my mouth… I had to look away briefly, eyes stinging.

“Don’t be. You were just…you.” His hand tightened, like it had last night, and I couldn’t have pulled away even if a million dollars had landed in front of us. Maybe not even if the money was accompanied by little green space aliens, because the look on Conrad’s face was like nothing I’d ever seen before, impossible to decipher. Soft. But warm too, like his words. Eyes more open, lips parted, breath audible.

And then, still holding my hand, he leaned in. This time I knew it was coming, and I didn’t flinch away. No phones rang. No loud people walked by. No one was having a meltdown, and the sun was shining, so there were no late-night excuses. Conrad was going to kiss me, and I was going to let him.

Wait. Let was the wrong word. I wanted this, had wanted it far, far longer than I was willing to admit, even to him. Even to myself for that matter. I wanted this, and I wasn’t going to let the moment slip away, not this time. Instead, I met him halfway, our lips colliding—a little artlessly at first, nothing lining up evenly, our noses bumping.

But then he shifted, pulling me closer, and I forgot to worry about what lined up where. For the first time maybe ever, logistics were less important to me than feelings. The margins of our mouths and angles of our noses became fleeting concerns, replaced by sensation. The feel of his lips, soft and satiny. The slight rasp of his cheek. The tremble in his hand. The strength in his fingers. The hitch in my heartbeat at the slightest increase in the pressure of his mouth. The sigh in my soul, a knee-melting feeling of absolute, utter rightness.

Right as I started to sink into that feeling, though, he pulled back, resting his forehead against mine for a second. Probably longer than the actual kiss, but my lips still tingled with awareness of where his had been.

“We need to get back.” His voice was thick as he released my hand. I wished I could tell whether it was lust or regret that made his eyes dark.

He was right, of course. We were in the middle of nowhere Colorado, right out in the open. It was a completely foolhardy place for kissing. But still I wanted more, and as we made our way back to the car, I couldn’t help but feel like I was leaving something important behind on that rock.

* * *

Actually kissing someone for the first time didn’t rearrange the planets or suddenly make magical unicorns appear on the path back to the car. No, I was still the same Alden with the same awkward not-sure-what-to-say dilemmas in my head, same worries about our schedule, same desire to win the tournament. Just…different too.

And heck if I knew what happened now. Conrad was no help, giving no clue as to how I was supposed to act, what it all meant, and most importantly, what would come next. He didn’t even look my direction as he tried to angle for the driver’s side.

“I know Denver at least a little from family trips,” he argued, voice a little too bright and quick. “And I know you hate parking Black Jack.”

“Fine. I’ll start looking for places to eat after the game-store stop.” I was proud of how steady my voice came out. I searched with my phone while he took us into Denver proper, heading for the Cherry Creek neighborhood. “It’s not quite as well-known as the pizza place you liked, but I found a deli with a ton of stars that supposedly has New York–style bagels and blintzes. Prices aren’t terrible for a big city.”

“Sure. Your turn to pick.” His smile was indulgent, the sort Mimi would give me when taking us for onion bagels on a Sunday, and somehow it grated on me. I didn’t want to be coddled by him or for him to act fake nice to make up for whatever perceived lapse in judgment he blamed for the kiss. I’d much rather have Cheetos and gas-station nachos and the prospect of more kisses than him retreating like this.

“I’m sorry if—”

“Take the exit for Speer Boulevard,” the GPS bleated.

“Let me focus on driving.” Conrad’s tone was more curt than usual, and I hated it.

Finally after we’d found the store and sorted out parking in the small lot next to the red-painted brick building, he turned to me. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

Nice as that sentiment was, it told me precisely nothing about how he was feeling, and I made a frustrated noise. “Do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”

I sucked at pretending, but for him and the sake of getting back to that easy place we’d found together the past few days, I’d try.