A young couple in front of us—they couldn’t have been any older than fourteen—had their arms wrapped around each other. He murmured something in her ear, and she tipped her head back and laughed. He took his opportunity to plant his mouth down on hers, stealing a kiss.
It was sloppy and awkward but also kind of sweet.
I nudged Vincent. “See what you were missing by not dating in high school?”
“Braces banging together and slobbering all over each other?”
I held in my giggle. That wasn’t exactly the way I’d seen it. The romantic in me had turned it into something sweeter, but if I looked at it through his eyes, he was probably right. “You’re right. High school dating is probably not the greatest. I never did much of it either.”
The line inched forward, and we went with it.
Vincent gazing down from his much taller height. “How come?”
I shrugged. “Nobody wanted to hold hands with the fat chick, I guess.”
It was less of a guess and more of a fact. I still remembered the day I’d overheard Sandra saying exactly that as she’d gossiped about me with another of our friends. I’d pretended I hadn’t heard, but even now, a shot of pain speared through me. Those old rejections, though it had been a decade ago, clearly still had barbs that were holding on. It had set me up for a lifetime of putting up with men’s bullshit, because I didn’t feel worthy of being treated better. I’d dated a little in college, but both men had been assholes that I’d put up with until they’d inevitably lost interest in me and broke it off.
Vincent’s fingers brushed mine.
My breath hitched. I gazed up at him, trying to determine if it had been deliberate or accidental.
His deep-brown eyes were hard to read but easy to drown in. His fingers brushed mine again, and then his pinky wrapped around mine.
I bit back a grin. “Vincent. Are you holding my hand?”
“I’m holding your finger. I wanted to hold your hand, but I wasn’t sure if that was allowed on a first date, and I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”
I stared up into his impossibly handsome face, and my heart hammered behind my chest. “I don’t know how you ever made anyone uncomfortable. You’re incredibly sweet.”
He didn’t say anything.
My gaze kept flickering to his lips, and all I could do was think about kissing them.
He caught my gaze and cleared his throat. “You keep staring at my mouth.”
“You noticed that, huh?”
“Why?”
I’d never been the one to initiate a kiss. I was always too terrified of rejection, even when I was in a relationship. But somehow, despite how attractive he was, I was the one with more experience between the two of us. If I wanted something to happen, it needed to come from me.
I wanted to kiss him.
“First kisses are allowed on first dates. That wouldn’t be presumptuous.”
He stepped in an inch. “Are you asking me to kiss you, Bliss?”
His voice turned deeper, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if the entire ‘I don’t date’ thing was even true. Because Vincent was looking at me with a heat that made me want to swoon. It was definitely the heat that made me nod.
His hand cupped the side of my face, and he lowered his mouth to mine.
Vincent’s kiss was soft and sweet, his lips gentle on mine.
My knees instantly went weak, but I pushed up on my toes, clutching his arms while the rest of the world around us ceased to exist. His fingers slid to the back of my head, holding me to him.
It was over too soon, a mere meeting of our mouths before he stepped back.
My head reeled at the connection such a simple, innocent kiss could create. I stared at him, shocked at how much I’d liked it when it had been so brief. He hadn’t even used his tongue, and yet his fingers flexing in my hair and the press of his hard body beneath my hands promised so much more than he’d given.
The smile I gave him had to have been blinding, but I forced myself to look away, not wanting to seem too eager. “Thank you.”
“For what? The kiss?”
I shrugged. “Yes. And for coming to my house tonight. For making me dinner. For holding my finger.”
He smiled at me sheepishly. “Thank you for not feeling uncomfortable.”
“What can I get you folks?”
Vincent and I looked up, and then moved forward to take our spot at the counter as the door behind us opened with a jingle of the bells.
Three young guys spilled in, their voices loud and slurred. They all wore football jerseys, and one started up a chant. “The Bears are number one. The Bears are number one.”