Chloe Boyd Gallagher can kiss. I’ve thought about his lips—that kiss—a few times more than I care to admit. A few dozen more times. He shocked me, caught me off guard. I wasn’t anticipating it, that’s for sure.
So I froze, unsure of what was happening. Unsure of how I felt about it. Then he pressed closer, kissing me deeper, and I stopped caring about what was happening. I stopped thinking about it and just enjoyed it—whatever ‘it’ was. And holy shit, Boyd Gallagher can make you forget. His lips can drive every single thought out of your head.
Well, maybe not every thought, because I managed to have a whole slew of inappropriate ones while his lips were pressed to mine. Thoughts about how no man has ever kissed me quite like that before. Thoughts of how my nipples felt pressed against his chest, how hard and warm he felt even through the layers of clothing separating us. I thought about how the skin on the back of my neck tingled where his fingers were wrapped, pulling me to him. I thought about how good it all felt without being too much. That while he ambushed me with the kiss his hands remained on my neck and pressed against the door next to my head. And finally, I had thoughts about how turned on I was. Like ready to unbuckle his pants turned on.
And then he broke the kiss and took a step back.
After that all my insecurities returned in a heartbeat and I panicked. Why was he kissing me? What did it mean? Did he like it? Did he want to do it again? Or did he never want to kiss me again? How long did I freeze at the beginning? Does he think I’m weird? Does he like me? Do I like him? Most importantly, what if I like him and it doesn’t work out?
What if we have sex and it’s bad and he never talks to me again? Or what if we have sex and it’s bad but he thinks it’s good and wants to keep having terrible sex with me? What if we get together and it doesn’t work out and then I have to explain it to my friends, which includes his sister?
So yes, I’ll admit that I panicked. I’m not a hasty thinker; I need a moment to process things or I feel cornered and I freak out. I’m like that with everything—apartment leases, pizza toppings, kissing. I just need a minute to think.
But then he rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb and told me that’s what he’d have done if we were on a real date. Because he’s my dating tutor or something now. When exactly did that happen anyway? The details get fuzzy when I’m around Boyd. He arrested my date. I asked him not to say anything about it to Everly or his sister Sophie. And that spiraled into me owing him a favor and him providing me with dating advice. I think. He’s sort of confusing.
I was a mass of mixed feelings after that kiss. Excited, terrified, confused, aroused. My heart was racing—hell, it still races a little when I think about it. I felt relief that it wasn’t real because it let me off the hook from thinking about what that would mean. Yet I felt disappointed and foolish for the same reason. So I said nothing—I needed another minute to process this twist—and before I could decide if I wanted to slap him or drag him back for more, he walked out the door, tossing out something about calling me with the details for next weekend.
On Wednesday he texted.
Boyd: Friday night. 8pm.
Chloe: ???
Boyd: What’s ??? Confusing?
Chloe: I thought you said the wedding was on Saturday?
Boyd:: It is.
Chloe: Then why do I need to see you on Friday?
Boyd: You need the practice. We’ll call it a date rehearsal.
Chloe: Are you serious right now?
Boyd: Dress comfortably. You can wear some of those godforsaken leggings you love. Wait, don’t. Sweatpants would be better. Baggy sweatpants.
Chloe: WTF are you talking about?
Boyd: See you Friday.
Chloe: Um, no.
Boyd: No you don’t own any sweatpants?
Chloe: No, I won’t see you on Friday.
Boyd: You will.
Chloe: What do we need to rehearse? You picked out the dress and shoes yourself. AND you’ve already rehearsed kissing me. Do you need to practice kissing me again? That was rude by the way. R.U.D.E. And if you think this favor I owe you includes making out with you in front of your family you can think again.
Boyd:: So as long as my family isn’t watching it’s okay? Deal.
Chloe: ………….
Boyd: ……….
The arrogant bastard shows up on Friday night at a quarter to eight. He’s wearing jeans that fit him perfectly, a long-sleeved black Henley and a smug smile—which drops from his face as his eyes trail over my legging-clad legs.
“Fucking leggings,” he mutters and walks inside my apartment without waiting for an invitation. I shut the door behind him and cross my arms across my chest while resting my weight on one hip, shooting Boyd with the most snarky expression I can manage.
“I’m busy, Boyd, what do you need?”
I mean seriously, what does he need? He cannot be hard up for female companionship on a Friday evening and as lovely as it is that he’s taken me on some sort of charity case, he’s got to have better things to do.
“You seem pretty busy,” he agrees, nodding towards my TV. I’m in the middle of a Dateline episode about a murder.
I sigh and roll my eyes, uncrossing my arms to wave a hand at him, indicating he should get to his point.
“I need you to pack,” he says.
Pack for what? I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as it occurs to me that Boyd’s never exactly said where this wedding is. Did I ever ask? Or did I just assume it was in the general Philadelphia area? I watch him as he strolls through my tiny studio apartment, his gaze roaming over my things while mine roams over him. Dammit, that shirt looks good on him. Freaking clingy cotton.
“What are you talking about?” I question when he doesn’t elaborate further. “Pack for what?”
He turns from the window, running his hand along his jaw. “Oh.” He pauses and drops his hand. “Did I forget to mention that the wedding is in Vail?”
“Vail!” I shriek. “Vail, Colorado? I can’t go with you to Colorado! It’s halfway across the country!”
“So?” He shakes his head, the skin around his eyes creasing in amusement. “Philadelphia, Vail. What’s the difference? I still have to go to this wedding, I still need to bring a date and you still have a new dress to wear,” he says, pointing to the dress still hanging in the store carrier bag, the hanger hooked over the top of my closet door. “Where’s your suitcase?” he asks, walking over to the closet and opening the door.
