Page 13 of The No Try Zone
I lift my palm. Tails.
My face must fall, because Matthew laughs and lifts my chin with a gentle, calloused finger. Something inside me, a scaffolding that I didn’t know was there, crumbles to dust. “Let me dance with you anyway, Sam.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he threads our hands together and leads me to a dance floor that I’m pretty sure took its cues from the 1970s, because it’s lit up with giant, multicolored tiles that shift and change with the beat.
A new song starts just as he pulls me into a tight hold, his right hand clasped onto my left, his other palm cradled against the small of my back. Squares of light come to life around us, bathing us in a fantasy of colors. Reds, blues, yellows. Every hue revealing a different facet of Matthew’s eyes. The entire moment feels unreal. Perfect. Chris Isaak’s haunting voice croons about not wanting to fall in love, and I think he’s right, but I’m helpless to stop it.
I lean my head against Matthew’s chest as he leads, his grip sure and steady as we dance in circles, the two of us in a world of our own making. He bows his head, his beard pressing against my hair, his lips so close that all I have to do is turn my head and I could feel the press of them against mine. We sway gently to the music, the guitar’s angsty melody seeming to pull me farther out to sea, but I go willingly, breathing deeply. My nose is right at the hollow of Matthew’s neck. He’s shower-fresh, the hint of dryer sheet and mint running below. Home.
When it’s over, I blink and glance up at him. “That was…” I trail off, brain fuzzy.
He smiles down at me and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “It was.” Then he releases me and steps back, unmooring me as a new, faster melody swirls around us. But I don’t want to leave.
“Another coin toss?”
“Which is?”
“If it lands on heads, you have to kiss me.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You want to kiss me, Sam?”
My cheeks heat. “Doyouwant to kissme?”
In answer, he pulls the coin from his pocket and flips, revealing it quickly.
“Heads,” he whispers.
“Heads,” I say back softly.
We lock eyes as he puts the coin away. “Here?”
“Seems like it.” My heartbeat speeds up and I have a hard time catching a full breath.
He steps closer, his palms moving to rest on my hips. They’re warm, weighted perfectly, grounding me even as I fight the urge to run around like I’ve got the zoomies. He tugs me to him.
The move takes me by surprise. I stumble over my own feet, my hands flying to his chest for balance, the rough cotton of his ridiculous shirt bunching beneath my fingers.
“Easy there,” he warns tenderly. “If you’re going to swoon, at least do itafterI’ve kissed you.”
I scoff, unwilling to let him see my bruised ego. “You honestly think your kisses are swoon-worthy?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.” He speaks quietly, his head bent close to mine.
I slide my hands up his chest – his very,veryhard chest – over his stupid shirt collar and let them rest on the nape of his neck. Then I lift my gaze to his. “Just think how fun this could have been if we’d kept the mustaches on.”
He smiles, lit by rainbows. “I’m glad they’re not.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Could’ve been hot.”
“Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and let me kiss you.”
I tip up on my toes, my breath catching as he lowers his head to meet me halfway.
There are kisses that poets write about. Life-changing ones. Kisses that alter your brain chemistry. Kisses that make you realize that up until this point, you haven’t actually ever been kissed. Not in a way that counts.
