The moment the words left his lips, Ambrose straightened as if his flirtatious comment had surprised him, and he turned away, suddenly embarrassed, too. The canned music overhead morphed into something by Barry Manilow and Fern instantly wished she hadn't reprimanded Ambrose. She should have just let him tease her. For a moment, he'd been so light-hearted, so young, and now he was rigid again, his back to her, hiding his face once more. Without another word, he started moving back toward the bakery.
“Don't go, Ambrose,” Fern called out. “I'm sorry. You're right. I haven't tried any of those things. You're the only guy who's ever kissed me. And you were kind of drunk, so you can tease me all you want.”
Ambrose paused and turned slightly. He pondered what she had said for several seconds and then asked, “How does a girl like you . . . a girl who loves romance novels and writes amazing love letters,” Fern's heart ceased beating, “how does a girl like you manage to sneak through high school without ever being kissed?”
Fern swallowed and her heart resumed its cadence with a lurch. Ambrose watched her, obviously waiting for a response.
“It's easy when you have flaming red hair, you're not much bigger than a twelve-year-old, and you wear glasses and braces until senior year,” Fern said wryly, confessing the truth easily, as long as it took the look of desolation from his eyes. He smiled again, and his posture eased slightly.
“So that kiss up at the lake, that was your first?” Ambrose asked hesitantly.
“Yep. I got my first kiss from the one and only Ambrose Young.” Fern grinned and waggled her eyebrows.
But Ambrose didn't laugh. He didn't smile. His eyes searched Fern's face for a long moment.
“Are you mocking me, Fern?”
Fern shook her head desperately, wondering why she couldn't seem to ever say the right thing. “No! I was just . . . being . . . silly. I just wanted you to laugh again!”
“I guess it is pretty funny,” Ambrose said. “The one and only Ambrose Young . . . yeah. Wouldn't that be something to brag about? A kiss from an ugly son of a bitch that half the town can't stand to look at.” Ambrose turned and walked into the bakery without a backward glance. Barry Manilow cried for a girl named Mandy and Fern felt like crying along with him.
Fern closed the store at midnight, just as she always did, Monday through Friday night. She had never had reason to feel nervous or even think twice about locking the store at midnight and riding home on her bike that she left chained by the employee entrance. She didn't even look sideways as she pushed through the heavy exit door and locked it, her mind already on her ride home and the manuscript that waited.
“Fern?” his voice came from her left and Fern had no chance to react before she was being pushed back against the side of the building. Her head banged against the block wall and she winced as her eyes flew to her assailant’s face.
The parking lot was poorly lit out front, but the lighting on the employee side of the building was non-existent. Fern had never even thought to complain. What little moonlight there was did little to illuminate her surroundings, but she could make out Ambrose’s broad shoulders and shadowed face.
“Ambrose?”
His hands cupped the back of her head, his fingers soothing the hurt he'd caused when her head had connected with the wall behind her. Her head barely reached his shoulder and she pressed her head back into his hands, lifting her chin to try to discern his expression. But the darkness kept his motives hidden, and Fern wondered briefly if Ambrose was dangerous and if his injuries were more than skin deep. But the thought had no time to simmer as Ambrose bent his head and lightly touched his lips to Fern's.
Shock and surprise bloomed in her chest, crowding out the brief moment of fear, and Fern's attention narrowed instantly to the sensation of the brush of Ambrose's mouth against her own. She catalogued the prickle of stubble on his left cheek, the whisper of his exhale, the warmth of smooth lips and the hint of cinnamon and sugar, as if he had sampled something he’d baked. He was hesitant, his gentleness at odds with his aggressive display. Maybe he thought she would push him away. When she didn't, she felt his sigh tickle her lips and the hands that held her head relaxed and slid to her shoulders, pulling her into him as he pressed his lips more firmly against hers.
Something unfurled itself low in Fern's belly, a shaky heat that curled and twisted its way through her stunned limbs and clenched hands. She recognized it immediately. It was desire. Longing. Lust? She had never experienced lust. She'd read about it enough. But feeling it firsthand was a whole new experience. She stretched up and held Ambrose's face between her palms, holding him to her, hoping he wouldn't come to his senses any time soon. She registered the contrast between his left cheek and his right, but the ridges and bumps that marked the right side of his face were of little consequence when his beautiful mouth was exploring her own.
He stopped abruptly, pulling his face from her palms and manacling her wrists with his big hands. Fern searched his face in the darkness.