Page 100 of Finding Him
I’ve gotten pretty used to Niall’s stubbornness (like with his knee pain and the alcohol thing, which I trust that he’s telling the truth to me about), and his mannerisms. I’m used tohim. I know that if we’re out in the cold, he’ll give me his jacket and won’ttake no for an answer. I know that he likes physically touching people.
That’s the hardest thing for me to get used to—the touching. Niall likes to hug me (which he does often), and other stuff. And though we weren’t technically “dating” yet, it was fair to assume he was going to try and kiss me again at some point or another.
Not that I don’t like these things about them—I love them—but it’s hard for me. Like on Monday after practice, when he came up behind me and surprised me. For a moment my mind wasn’t on the pitch, it was in the past, and I had locked up out of instinct. I don’t think Niall noticed, but the point was that reflex always lived in the back of my mind.
I knew Niall well enough to know he wouldn’t intentionally hurt me. But it’s still hard for my body to remember that sometimes.
“You stir,” Niall says, holding the wooden spoon out for me handle-first.
I take it from him, beginning to fold the heavy batter and watching the chocolate chips disappear into the dark swirls. Behind me, Niall bangs around the kitchen, pulling out a square tin and spraying it down with baking oil.
“Ready, Mol?” he asks, setting the prepared pan down next to my mixing bowl. I carefully pour the thick batter into the tin, smoothing it out with the back of the spoon.
“Perfect.” He slides the pan into the massive industrial oven he started preheating when we walked in, and then sets a little football shaped baking timer. “Now we wait.”
“So what do we do while we wait, baker’s man?” I ask.
He reaches over, dragging the empty mixing bowl toward him. He swipes his index finger through the thick remnants of the batter and pops it into his mouth. “Clean up.”
I mirror him, scraping a line of chocolate from the side of the bowl. It’s rich and overwhelmingly sweet, the sugar hittingmy tongue in a rush. Niall watches me, his gaze dropping to my mouth and lingering there.
Just when I think he’s going to kiss me, his hand shoots out and swipes a generous dollop of batter onto the tip of my nose.
“Hey!”
He laughs, dodging backward as I lunge for him, trying to retaliate. I manage to grab his wrist, twisting his arm just enough to smear my own chocolate-covered finger across his cheek.
He yelps in protest, and then we’re wrestling with each other, each trying to cover the other in chocolate. Somehow we end up tipping the bag of flour over, sending a white cloud up into the air.
Niall’s hands catch my hips, his grip firm and sure. With effortless strength, he lifts me entirely off my feet and sets me down on the edge of the island. The laughter squeezes out of my lungs as he steps securely between my knees, caging me against the counter.
Oh my god.
“Gotcha,” he murmurs, his head tilted slightly. His chest heaves, his breath hot and uneven against my face.
The sex scene of my life is about to happen in a bakery.
I can’t tell if what’s coursing through my veins and making my heart speed up is fear or desire.
I’m suddenly hyper-aware of everything. His fingers that curl around my waist; the visible beat of his pulse in his neck; the sweet smell of the chocolate mixing with his normal woodsy cologne.
My hands move with a mind of their own, clearly working on the side of desire, and my fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. I pull him closer and he doesn’t hesitate. He leans in until our lips finally meet.
He pulls me flush against his chest, his hands sliding round my back but remaining careful and respectful, not going any further up or down than that. I reach up, my thumb tracing his jawline to wipe away the smeared batter. I feel him smile into the kiss before pressing deeper.
Panic flares up for only a microscopic second—the familiar instinct to run, to push him away, to hide. But I stay grounded. I don’t pull away. I don’t freeze. I’m able to push all the bad thoughts out of my mind.
I want to be here. In this kitchen, in this moment. Nowhere else, with nobody else.
40
There’s Been A Gas Leak
Niall
November, 2007
“DON'T YOU FORGET, Niall. I mean it.”
