Promise Me

I grin. “I’m going to need proof.”

“Maybe someday.”

“I’m adding it to my Summer Adventures with Kendall list. Chocolate chip cookies and verification of moonwalk skills.” This girl brings out the easy, unworried side of me, and I like it.

She lets out a breath. “I actually haven’t danced since high school.”

Before I can ask her why, the last notes fade, the lights come up, and the room erupts in applause. Dixie smiles, says “Thanks” into the mic, and strides off the stage.

Kendall pulls her phone from the pocket of her shorts and bites her lip as she reads the screen. “Amber wants me to meet her outside. I better see what’s up.” She sends me the beginnings of a see-you-around smile.

“I’ll go with you.” I make the proposal over the noise of the standing ovation—like everyone in the place is endorsing my suggestion—and take her hand to lead her through the press of bodies. Amber will need a minute to work her way through the crowd, and I’ll get some time alone with Kendall. Maybe enough time to convince her to let me drive her home? And maybe, once she’s in my car, I can convince her to let me do more? I’m getting way ahead of myself, I know, but my chest still tingles from the weight of her breasts, her fingers feel right threaded through mine, and the sway of her hips as she walks the darkened hallway to the exit makes me imagine her walking into my bedroom. She turns and gives me a shy smile over her shoulder, and I wonder if she overheard my thoughts.

Or maybe she’s having thoughts of her own? I’d love to know what’s going on in her mind. I want her, but it’s more than a knee-jerk physical reaction to long legs in short shorts, or blond hair streaming over bare shoulders. I want her. The girl who brags about moonwalking but hasn’t danced in a while, who can make a split-second decision to rescue a neighbor, but needs the entire summer to think. The girl who’s off to law school in the fall.

But she’s here for now, and if she put me at the top of her Summer Adventure list, I’d happily dedicate the next few months to making her very glad she did.

Will she let me? Her eyes find mine as I hold the door open and she steps out into the warm Hollywood night. I think she might. Not because I’m the guy on the Times Square billboard. She saw past the illusion of picture-perfect Vaughn Shaughnessy about five seconds after tackling me, and for some reason she’s still looking. As we move toward the sidewalk, she slips her hands into her pockets and brings her shoulders up toward her ears in body language that says, So…here we are. I want to talk about where we could go.

We move to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid blocking the door, but it’s not quite ten p.m. on a Sunday night, so the sidewalk is pretty much ours. A young guy in a red vest loiters by the valet stand, staring at his phone. His eyes drift up to check Kendall out.

I don’t blame him. She’s fucking luminous. Gold from the streetlight rains down on her hair and gilds her skin. Yet another unfamiliar territorial impulse takes root in my gut. I want to punch this jerk just for looking at her.

Instead I give in to an admittedly unevolved urge to stake a claim. I close in, crowding her until she’s backed up against a parking meter, and I’m blocking her from his view.

Something winks at me from just above the tempting line where flesh disappears beneath lace, and my focus drops to the diamond in the center of her pendant. I trace my fingertip along the chain, touching the smooth skin of her chest at the same time, sending any bystanders a clear, if not strictly truthful message: this is mine.

Kendall shivers as my finger draws closer to the pendant nestled in the vulnerable little dip demarking the start of her cleavage, and I know without glancing at her that we’re both watching my progress. I’m sure she’s got something on beneath the silky top with its delicate lace edge, but whatever it is doesn’t hide much, because her nipples rise against the fabric. Her breath comes out in an unsteady rush. My throat tightens as I fantasize about scraping my tongue over one of those stiff little peaks. Imagine the sensation of her nails scouring my scalp. Savor the vibration of her soft, appreciative moan.

I cup her jaw and tip her face to mine. Her eyes stay lowered and locked on my mouth. Her hands come up to wrap around my wrists.

“Kendall?”

“I…I can’t.” She closes her eyes and turns her face away. “I’m sorry.”

I rest my forehead against her temple for a second

and let the disappointment subside to acceptance. Then I take a step back and put my hands in my pockets. “Sorry wasn’t what I was going for, but, since you are, the apology should probably be my line. Did I misread—?”

“No.” She meets my stare squarely. “It’s not you. It’s…me.” As soon as the cliché leaves her mouth, she groans. “Oh, God. Erase. Rewind. Delete. I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Said what?”

We both give a small smile.

“It really is me. I… It’s complicated, but you didn’t do anything wrong, and you definitely don’t owe me an apology. I had fun tonight. More fun than I expected, thanks to you. I guess I got a little swept off my feet.”

“Then we’re even,” I joke. “You swept me off my feet before we even said hello.” Immediately I wonder why I opened my big mouth and mentioned the fucked-up first impression I made.

“It’s not often I get to show off my superhuman strength.”

I appreciate her returning the joke, but beneath all the banter, I’m confused. What makes the attraction between us complicated? Because the way she was looking at me and responding to my touch? Nothing about that felt complicated. I’m trying to find the right way to ask without coming off like some douche who can’t take no for an answer when the club door swings open with a whisper, followed by the unsteady clomp of boots on concrete.

“Hey. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I turn to see Amber searching through her tiny purse for her valet ticket. Her face is pale and coated with a sheen of sweat that’s left the hair at her temples damp and her mascara smudged.

Kendall moves around me, all thoughts about our moment seemingly gone. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”