“Later.”
Disconnecting the call, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and continue watching Brooke moving toward me.
Her cream-colored, short-sleeved blouse dips low in the front, courtesy of several unfastened buttons. Dark jeans fit to her curves. And on her feet, a pair of gray flats.
Those pink heels she likes to wear are sexy as fuck, but I might like her in flats better. When I pull her close and fit our bodies together, she’s the perfect height for me to rest my chin on top of her head.
“Hey. You made it.” She places her hand to my chest, offering me her cheek. She knows that’s where I’m heading.
I fucking love that she knows that.
“I almost called to remind you,” she adds, smirking.
“I told you I’d be here.” I bend for a kiss and then motion for her to have a seat. Sliding the sandwich bag into my lap, I hold out the to-go box for her to take.
She studies the label on the top of the box, then slowly eases it from my hands.
“You went to Rosie’s,” she states through a soft laugh. “You know I’ve only ever been there for breakfast? I have no idea what their lunch menu looks like.”
It wouldn’t matter, I think, smiling to myself.
I dig my sandwich out of my bag, keeping my gaze in my lap. “Lots of sandwiches and soups. A few salads. Typical lunch stuff.” I peel away the wrapper to reveal the top piece of rye bread.
A soft gasp perks in my ear, followed by cardboard creasing. “Oh, my God, Mason. This is impossible. How did you get them to make you this? They stop serving breakfast at ten-thirty!”
I glance over at her, watching as she lifts the box to her face and inhales.
She makes a soft, moaning sound in the back of her throat as her eyes fall closed. The wind picks up, blowing her hair off her shoulder.
I stare at neck, her dimple, the adorable wrinkle in her nose as she practically submerges her face in that box.
She turns and bumps our knees together. “Mason.”
“What?” I casually ask, taking a bite of my sandwich and finally meeting her eyes. “Oh, do you like that kind of French toast? It’s a bit odd, yeah? With the cereal? I wasn’t sure you would like it.” I pull a set of wrapped plastic silverware out of my pocket and hold it out.
Our fingers slide together as she reaches for it. I feel a jolt of energy pulse under my skin.
Brooke’s eyes widen, lowering to my mouth.
With a quick jerk, she leans forward and hovers an inch from my face, her lungs straining for breath. The movement is so abrupt and clearly so startling for her, given her staggered expression, it’s as if she is being pushed into me and held there.
“Brooke,” I murmur, looking all over her face. I bring my arm behind her and rest it on the bench, angling us together.
She blinks up at me. “Mm?”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
She doesn’t answer, but her eyes, those beautiful fucking eyes drop to my mouth and stay there, flickering open a little wider when I wet my lips.
A heaviness gathers in my limbs as I wait, and wait, and fuck, wait for her to make a move. A decision.
This is a first.
Every kiss, every sort of affection we’ve shared has been instigated and carried out by me. Sure, she’s been an active participant, minus a few of the times I’ve tried to hold her hand, but she’s never reached for me. She’s never forced the seal of our mouths together and shocked the hell out of me.
I inch closer, just the smallest shift, enough to feel her breath on my face. It’s warm and smells like fruit, something berry.
“Come on,” I whisper.
It sounds like I’m begging. I feel like I am.
Her pink tongue darts out and slides across her lips.
I can see the wild hammering of her pulse beneath her ear. I can practically hear her thoughts and the argument she wages with herself over this monumental affirmation.
Come on, Brooke.
I keep reminding myself to breathe and to not move and to just fucking wait another second. Then another. Time becomes a double-edged sword. The longer she considers this, the more shattering or satisfying the end result will become.
I’ll look back on this moment and think it was torture and damaging in the end. She wasn’t ready. She might not ever be. Or, I’ll only remember the feel of her lips and the taste of her warm breath and I’ll think, ‘I would’ve waited hours for that’.
A hand touches my thigh. My blood turns to lava, scorching and slow-moving.
Then with a gasping breath she leans in and presses the softest kiss to my mouth.
FUCK.
I’ve shared a lot of kisses with Brooke. Hot, hungry ones where it feels like I’ve captured her after a long-winded chase. Ones that seem imperative and essential to my survival. But this kiss, even though it’s fleeting and painstakingly faint, feels superior to every other kiss she has or will ever give me.
And in that moment, my life becomes profoundly simple, consisting of only one person.