The Rom-Commers(70)

I could dwell on feminist-y questions like why the hell Charlie Yates of all people got to be the arbiter of my personal appeal later. Right now, only one thing was clear: I’d been fully willing to kiss him. And Charlie Yates—most definitely, most emphatically—had not been even the tiniest bit willing to kiss me.

Fine. Fine.

The rejection descended into a burning humiliation. All I could think of to stop it was to flat-out flee the room. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t care—but I felt so rejected, I couldn’t even do that.

“Emma,” Charlie said, following me.

“I get it. It’s cool,” I said, walking faster. “I’ve just gotta—I just need to—” But my mind was jumbled. What did I need to do? What out-of-nowhere pressing issue could serve as the pretend reason I was leaving?

There was nothing. Nothing convincing, anyway.

“Emma,” Charlie said, with a tone like Don’t.

Don’t what? Don’t get your feelings hurt? Don’t overreact?

Don’t walk away?

Charlie was gaining on me, and I wasn’t sure what I would do when he caught up.

I just needed a minute to regroup and hide all my feelings behind a mask of indifference—a minute that Charlie wasn’t giving me.

Which seemed wildly impolite.

A minute to hide! Was that so much to ask for?

But that’s when Charlie caught my arm and tugged it.

I stopped and let him turn me around.

I could have ripped out of his grasp and taken off sprinting, I guess. But the game was already up. I was a writer, not an actor. My hurt and disappointment and infinite vulnerabilities were plain to see in every possible way.

The sight of my face just confirmed it all for Charlie.

I watched him reading me in real time.

“Did I—disappoint you just then?” Charlie asked.

I looked down. “No,” I said. But it was an obvious yes.

“Did I hurt you?”

I shook my head, but I didn’t meet his eyes.

“Did you want to do that research kiss?”

“No.” Not convincing.

“Emma…” Charlie said, taking in all this new information.

Finally, I brought my eyes up.

Charlie was leaning in with concern. And intensity. And maybe a whole new understanding of who he had become to me.

He took a step forward—and then it was my turn to take a step back.

“Are you pitying me right now?” I asked.

He took another step closer, and this time, I backed into the kitchen doorjamb.

“It’s fine,” I insisted. “I don’t care.” But I was such a bad liar.

When he took a final step, there was nowhere for me to go.

He closed the gap and leaned in closer. “I didn’t want to kiss you—” he started.

“Yeah. I got that. Thank you.”

But Charlie gave a sharp headshake, like I hadn’t let him finish. “For research.”

I held very still.

“I didn’t want to kiss you for research,” Charlie said again, watching me to see if I got it.

Did I get it?

Neither of us was sure.

Charlie gave it another second—waiting for my expression to shift into understanding.

But I was afraid to understand. What if I got it wrong?

So Charlie gave up on the waiting.

Instead, he cradled my face in his hands and tilted me up to meet his eyes.

Then he shifted his gaze from my eyes to my mouth, and he wasn’t just looking, he was seeing. It was like he was taking in everything about my mouth—from color, to texture, to shape. It was physical, like it had a force, and I swear I could feel it, like he was brushing the skin of my lips with nothing but the intensity of his gaze.

And then he leaned in closer, staying laser-focused on this one place right in front of him.

The anticipation was excruciating.

I watched his mouth as he leaned closer.

And then, just as we touched, he brought his hand into my hair to hold me close.

And I stretched my arms up around his neck.

And the kiss just took over.

His mouth felt smooth and firm and soft all at once, and the warmth and tenderness of it all swirled together with my dawning understanding that this was happening—Charlie Yates was kissing me. And a dreamy euphoria hijacked all my senses, and I felt like long grass billowed by the wind.

I was just sinking into it when Charlie pulled back a little and opened his eyes to check my reaction, like Was that okay?

Um. Was that even a question? We’d need a better word for okay.

I reached up behind Charlie’s neck to pull him back.

Had I been ragging on Charlie for forgetting what kissing was like?

Because I’m not sure I ever knew in the first place.

There’s something about a kiss that brings all the opposites together. The wanting and the getting. The longing and the having. All those cacophonous emotions that usually collide against one another teaming up at last into a rare and exquisite harmony.

I remember pressing my mouth to his, and plunging into a feeling of being lost—submerged in touch and closeness. I remember our arms wreathing and entwining around each other, and pulling tighter and exploring. I remember how my palms wanted to feel everything they could find: the sandpapery stubble on his neck, the muscles across his shoulders, and his solid torso under his T-shirt.