She leans closer, as if magnetized, and I let that be my yes.
Lips brush lips in a touch that’s as electric as it is gentle. It’s meant to be soft and swift, but she stands on her tiptoes and melts into me. Her full breasts against my chest make me ache. I trace her face with my hands, then I smooth her hair back, following the line down to her braid, which I tug on, as I’ve wanted to do all morning.
At that light tug, she makes a small sound, something between a squeak of surprise and a groan of longing. The kiss deepens into something frantic, our mouths seeking each other with quiet desperation. It’s hot and wild, and it leaves me breathless. The door jingles again. That damn door. We break apart, panting, in the middle of the cheerful café.
Voices filter to us. Being discovered by fans or the paparazzi in a coffee shop would be bad enough. Being discovered in a lip-lock with Olivia would be a disaster. I try to get my body under control.
She touches her lips, looking shell-shocked. “Why did you…” She shakes her head. “Why me?”
“Because you’re perfect, and you don’t even know it,” I say. I don’t tell her the whole truth. She’s perfect for me. I want her to understand before I leave, but there isn’t enough time.
“Goodbye.” It’s all there is to say, my voice rough with unexpected emotion.
“Goodbye,” she whispers back, her finger still on her lips.
Not see you later, like last time.
This time, it’s goodbye.
CHAPTER 11
Olivia
It’s been two days since The Kiss, and my mind is still a mess.
When I should’ve been getting ready for work this morning, I snuggled under the covers, replaying The Kiss. And earlier when I was working in the café, I should’ve been concentrating on taking people’s coffee orders, but my mind was one-tenth on remembering their skinny caramel macchiato and nine-tenths on The Kiss.
Even now, sitting at the bookshop’s customer service desk, I keep replaying it over and over in my brain.
Let’s be real; nothing can compete with The Kiss. I’m worried that I’ll be stuck forever in this daydream of lust and pointless longing. This is just a fantasy. It’s not as if I’ll ever see Chase James again. An international movie star coming into my empty café two mornings in a row is just a weird and wacky coincidence. His kiss meant nothing. The guy probably kisses girls all the time.
I don’t follow the tabloids carefully, but I’ve seen enough covers at the checkout line to know that this heartthrob isn’t a stranger to women. I remember reading that he even dated Avery Woods. The Avery Woods! And there’s his costar, who everyone believes is his secret love. Perhaps, in between those ridiculously beautiful ladies, he goes around making random, average women swoon by kissing them stupid. That’s the only explanation I can muster.
There’s no way he likes me. I’m not saying I’m a troll or anything. I’m kind. I’m smart. My hair, my best feature, is sort of nice—long and black and shiny. I have a truly kick-ass collection of records featuring everything from classical to blues to ’80s pop. And I’m a loyal friend, even if I don’t have many of them.
I’m just not the kind of girl who inspires movie-star kisses. That’s reserved for magical unicorn girls who sing in sold-out stadiums and star in blockbuster movies, who are waif-thin and classically beautiful, who skip the bread, go to the gym daily, and are no strangers to the red carpet.
I’m not that girl.
Just saying.
I’m entirely ordinary. But maybe he kisses ordinary girls as a matter of course to keep his fan base happy. It’s fan outreach, similar to posting on social media.
Speaking of social media…
I drum my fingers on the desk, debating. It’s a slow time at the store, so I’m editing Audrey’s blog post on great beach reads. Instead of wrapping up the article, I let my fingers wander, pulling up a search engine and typing the words Chase James.
I kissed the Sexiest Man Alive. Of course I’m going to internet-stalk.
I feel a little hot when I type in his name, though I don’t know why. The guy is one of the most-searched men on the planet. Checking his social media accounts is no big deal. Maybe he’s even tweeting about the crazy fangirl he kissed this week.
Only.
Huh.
I stare at my computer screen, reading an article lamenting that Chase James isn’t on social media. Apparently, he’s low-key and private like that. My opinion of him goes even higher. I click a few more links and find that, though he’s not on social media himself, he does have a lot of fan accounts devoted to him. My heart stops when I click on a red-carpet photo. He’s staring into the camera like he knows all my secrets. I’ve been on the receiving end of that stare, and it’s even more devastating in person. He’s even more devastating in person.