We’re a couple of minutes away from
my apartment, which also means we’re almost at the end of our date. End-of-date
protocol often means a goodnight kiss.
And I’ve eaten onions. Lots of
them. What the hell was I thinking? I feel around in my shorts pocket, hoping I
have a random stick of gum. I find a tiny square packet and pull it out, along
with an old tissue. I shove that back in my pocket and sigh with relief as I
carefully open the Listerine Pocketpak. There’s one strip left. I pop it in my
mouth, wishing I had water since my mouth is dry and I’m suddenly super
nervous.
Griffin pulls up in front of my
apartment building. I swallow a bunch of times, trying to get the strip to
dissolve on my tongue and glance out the tinted window, seeing it from his perspective.
I don’t live in a bad part of town, but I sure as hell wouldn’t leave this car
sitting out here for any length of time unless I wanted it keyed or stripped
down.
Griffin shifts into park and turns
to me, one hand resting on the back of my seat near the headrest. “I had a
great time, Cosy.”
“Me too, thanks for dinner.” I
tried to fork over my share, but he was quick on the credit card draw.
“It was my pleasure.” He leans in
the tiniest bit, a nonverbal cue that he’s going in for a kiss.
I mirror the movement, giving him
the go ahead. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I exhale slowly through my
nose. Even though the Listerine strip should be doing its job to mask the
onions, I don’t want to ruin the moment by breathing that in his face.
His fingertips skim my jaw, and I
close my eyes. And then his lips brush my cheek. I wait for them to move a
couple of inches to the right, but after what feels like a lot of seconds—and
is probably only a few—I crack a lid.
Griffin is still close, a wry smile
on his lips and a smolder in his eyes.
“Seriously, that’s it? A kiss on
the cheek?”
His smile widens, making his eyes
crinkle at the corners. He’s nothing like the guys I usually end up on dates
with. College boys don’t take things slow. If I were out with one of the guys
from school, I’d be sitting in a beat-up Civic with some stupid music playing,
and he’d be all over me with his tongue halfway down my throat, copping a feel.
“I thought all the onions you ate were the equivalent to garlic for vampires.” Griffin
fingers my hair near my shoulder. I’d really like him to finger something else.
Wait. I mean I’d like to feel his hands on me. Not in my pants. Okay, maybe I’d
like them in my pants, but not after date number one. “I wasn’t thinking, and I
really like onions. A lot. In hindsight, it’s not a great date food. I feel
kinda dumb. And I guess at first I wasn’t so sure about you. How was I supposed
to know you’d actually be kind of normalish?”
“Normalish?”
“Well, you drink club soda on
purpose, so you can’t be all there.” I tap his temple.
Griffin circles my wrist with his
fingers and drops his head, lips brushing over my knuckle. “We can’t all be
perfect, now, can we?”
“I suppose not, and perfect is
boring.”
“That it is.” He hums against my
skin, and I feel it through my entire body. “I would like to try that kiss
again, if you’re still interested.”
From MAKING UP.
Copyright © 2019 by Helena Hunting and
reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
AUTHOR BIO
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
