Page 56 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
“No,” he breathes. “That doesn’t count as your first kiss.”
And then, faster than I can even process, he reaches up, grabs the back of my neck, and yanks my mouth back down to his.
He kisses me.
Hekissesme.
Hands in my hair, fingers twisted through curls, grip so tight my scalp stings.
Sandpaper stubble against my skin, rough against smooth.
Lips hungry, devouring—push and pull, give and take, the nip of my teeth and our stilted breaths in the silent kitchen.
And perhaps most notable of all: the beat of my heart, the rhythm of my pulse, the fire in my veins that roarsfinally, finally, finally—
“No,” Beckett gasps suddenly, and the next thing I know I’m stumbling backward, my steps horribly loud on the linoleum tile. I bump into the refrigerator, but the collision barely registers in my mind; I’m too focused on the man in the chair in front of me.
“No,” he says again, his eyes wild. He runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up like a mad scientist’s. His gaze darts around the kitchen until finally it comes to rest on me, at which point I realize I’m dealing with a cornered animal.
“All right,” I say gently. I hold my hands up in surrender. “I won’t do it again. Okay?”
“Crap, Molly,” he says. He rakes his fingers through his hair again. “Crap. Look.” He exhales roughly before going on. “It’s not that I don’t want to, all right? I obviously do. But—”
“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice slow and calm. “It’s truly okay. You don’t need to explain.” Then, because his eyes are still a little shell-shocked, I add, “Just relax, all right?”
Beckett slumps back in his chair. “I can’t relax with you,” he says. The words are croaky, like they’ve been stuck in his throat. But I just smile.
“Yes, you can,” I say softly. Then I lean down, over the back of his chair, and wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder. “I’m a safe space for you.”
“You’re not, though,” he sighs. His hands come up to rest on my forearms, his thumbs rubbing my skin back and forth, back and forth, in a way that sends shivers through me. He lets his head drop back. “You’re dangerous, Molly O’Malley. You’re doing things to me that I can’t make sense of.”
And it clicks, then, the truth of this situation. Bits and pieces of the puzzle I’ve already had begin floating around in my mind’s eye, rearranging themselves and then snapping into place until the full picture appears.
He likes me. But he’s scared.
“I understand how you feel,” I say slowly. My voice is barely above a whisper, but with my chin propped on his shoulder, I know he can hear me just fine. “And it makes sense that you feel that way. I know you’re not big on forming relationships or getting close to people, especially with how you grew up.” The words keep spilling out of me, but I don’t stop them. It feels important to validate him, somehow; to let him know that what he’s feeling is normal and okay. At the same time, though…I clear my throat. “But just because something is new or scary doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad or dangerous.”
Beckett sighs again. “I know that,” he says. He continues to trail his hands over my forearms where they’re wrapped around his shoulders, his palms calloused and rough and perfectly warm. “My mind knows that.”
“But it doesn’t change how you feel,” I say.
“Yeah.”
I nod—or I try to, anyway. It doesn’t work that well, since my head is resting on his shoulder. “I get that,” I say. “And I won’t push.”
Beckett’s hands stop their trek over my arms, and without warning he turns his head toward mine. Our cheeks smoosh together, his chin bumping into my mine. “Your whole life?”
I blink. “What?”
“That’s what Wes said. That you’ve had a crush on me for pretty much your whole life.”
“Oh,” I say. I move to unwrap my arms from around his shoulders, but his hands tighten on them, holding me in place. I give in, slumping back against him. “Um. Kind of? I guess?” There’s no point in denying it, I guess. I’m going to take it as a blessing in disguise that he can’t actively look at my face right now, though. Otherwise he’d see that I’ve probably turned the same red as his tomato soup.
“I guess I am a pretty incredible male specimen,” he says.
“Modest, too,” I say with a little smile.
His voice is more serious, though, when he speaks again. “I can’t promise you anything, Molly. I really can’t.”
