My silence must tell him everything he needs to know, because he slowly pulls himself up from his slumped position. His hand drops softly from his hair to my knee, and a shiver shoots down my spine. He licks his lips, slowly, teasingly, and in a way that makes it feel like torture.
“Can I kiss you again?” he murmurs, without breaking our fixed gaze, his eyes soft and calm as he waits for an answer, his lips parted.
But just like he never answers me, I don’t answer him. Instead, I push myself up and slowly move across the center console, trying not to dislocate my leg as I perch my body on top of his. I straddle him in the limited space, my beating heart against his chest and my back pressed against the steering wheel. It’s not ideal, but it’s enough.
Without hesitation, he reaches up to cup my face in his hands, and with gentle force, he captures my lips. It’s like yesterday all over again but better, his lips moving with a sense of urgency. He dominates the kiss again with confidence, doing things that I didn’t know were even possible. And the more he keeps on kissing me, the more I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over the exhilaration.
As his lips break away from mine and move to my neck, I run my hands through his hair. The softness tickles my fingertips as he kisses my neck, slowly yet firmly, and I grasp his jaw and tilt his face up. My heart is racing as I draw his ear to my lips, and I dare to whisper, “You don’t even need to ask.”
Chapter 22
When Tyler and I got home at the exact same time last night, we bluffed our way out of our careless mistake by saying that he gave me a ride home again. Ella believed us. She asked Tyler if he’d enjoyed his night with Tiffani. He said yes. She asked me if I had fun with Meghan. I told her I had.
And then Tyler and I exchanged a momentary knowing glance, an unspoken secret held captive within our eyes, a secret only we knew and understood.
Dad has a late start for work today, so he’s still lingering around the house when I get back from my run. I’m exhausted. Instead of tracing a new route around the city like I set out to do, I ended up jogging down the beachfront from Santa Monica to Venice. It was refreshing listening to the waves of the Pacific Ocean instead of my music for a change. Almost relaxing, despite the way my lungs were aching.
“What time are you leaving?” I ask Dad as I slip into the kitchen after showering and pulling on fresh clothes. My hair is haphazardly piled into a messy bun atop my head.
Dad barely gives me a second glance as he rams a stack of paperwork into a briefcase. He rubs his temple and grabs his car keys from the countertop. “Right now. I’ve got an important meeting with our suppliers that I can’t fu—mess up.” His cheeks flush with color as he brushes past me, briefcase in one hand, keys in the other.
“Can you drop me off at the promenade on your way?” I’m craving some steaming-hot coffee, but Dad and Ella’s coffee machine just doesn’t do it for me. My legs are so stiff from my jog that I can’t possibly force myself to walk all the way to Third Street. Tyler can’t give me a ride, because he’s at the gym with Dean, and Ella already left to take Jamie and Chase celebrity hunting. Apparently Ben Affleck is around today.
Dad suppresses a groan. “Come on, then.”
I dart back upstairs to pull on my Chucks and get some cash before rushing back down to my waiting father, who is impatiently tapping his foot by the front door. I edge past him. He locks up and follows me over to the Lexus, his face a picture of complete stress and discomfort. If I talk to him, I think he might cry, so I decide to keep quiet for the short ride. But the silence only lasts for ten minutes.
“So.” Dad clears his throat. “Are you having a good summer?”
“It’s okay.” Talk about the biggest understatement of the year. The summer isn’t okay. The summer is like a lucid dream that I don’t seem to want to wake up from. Everything about these past few weeks has been so new and so wrong, yet so thrilling and so right. “Here’s good,” I murmur, and point to the sidewalk of Santa Monica Boulevard.
He pulls up by the curb and I step out. Before I get the chance to close the door behind me, Dad leans over the center console and offers me a small smile. “Be careful,” he says. “LA isn’t as safe as Portland.”
“Actually,” I say, leaning down to meet his eyes, “the rate of rape crimes in Portland is now higher than the U.S. average. Good luck with the meeting.”