Page 78 of What We Break
The word slipped out before I could stop it. We. Like we're a team. Like this is a thing we do now. "I mean, if you want to help me cook some of this stuff. You don't have to?—"
"Laine." He's grinning at me across the hood of the car. "I would love to help you cook."
That smile. I slide into the car before my legs give out. Does he have any idea what he does to me?
He slides in, still smiling.
Yeah. He knows exactly what he does to me.
So screwed, Mitchell. So completely screwed.
"So," I say, "ready to see what we can do with all this?"
Reid leans across the console, and for a second I think he's reaching for something in the back seat. Instead his hand finds the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. His eyes drop to my mouth.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I'm ready."
Then he's kissing me. Soft at first. Then deeper. His other hand cups my jaw, tilts my head so he can kiss me more thoroughly, and I forget we're in a parking lot. Forget there are people walking past with shopping carts. Forget everything except his mouth on mine and the fact that my hand is gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping me from floating out of this car.
When we finally break apart, I'm more than a little breathless. My lips feel swollen. I want to climb across this console and into his lap, which would be deeply undignified and also worth it.
"That was nice," I manage.
Nice. I just said nice. Someone revoke my vocabulary.
Reid doesn't laugh at me, but his eyes are dark and his voice has dropped to that rough register that turns my spine to liquid. "Just nice?"
"Really nice."
"I'll take it." He's looking at my mouth again. "For now."
16
LAINE
"Ithink my smoothie is trying to escape," Jamila says, chasing a bright purple blob down the side of her glass with a napkin.
"That's what you get for ordering something called 'Acai Explosion,'" I say, stabbing a chunk of mango in my much more reasonable green smoothie. "I warned you."
"You did. But the name was so dramatic, I couldn't resist." Jamila grins and takes another sip, somehow managing not to spill this time. "How's yours?"
"Less explosive. More like 'Spinach Whispers Gently.'"
We're sitting outside the smoothie place Jamila mentioned after yoga last week, and it's still weird how normal this feels. Six months ago, making plans with someone from a fitness class would have been pointless. What's the point of getting to know someone when you'll be gone in a few weeks?
But here I am. Week four of Saturday smoothies. Same table, same order, same person across from me. And I like it.
"So," Jamila says, settling back in her chair with the look of a woman about to steer a conversation exactly where she wants it, "how's things with Reid?"
Not subtle. But that's Jamila. She asks questions like she's pickinglocks — not to rob the place, but because she genuinely wants the tour. The first time we got smoothies, she had my entire life story out of me in forty-five minutes.
"Things are good," I say. "Really good."
"You said that last week. And the week before." She tilts her head. "But you've got a different face today."
"I don't have a different face. This is my regular face."
"Laine. I work in marketing. Reading people's faces is literally how I pay my mortgage. You've got a different face." She points her straw at me. "Spill."
