still wanted to be doing this. So no, I don’t think that’s why we
like it now.”
She smiles.
“See?” I whisper, brushing my lips softly across hers to show
her how good it feels.
She lifts off her pillow and holds herself up on her elbow.
“What if we just like kissing in general?” she asks. “What if it
has nothing to do with me or you in particular?”
She always does this. I tell her she should be a lawyer, because
she likes playing devil’s advocate so much. But I love it when
she does it, so I always go along with it.
“Good point,” I tell her. “I do like kissing. I don’t know of
anyone who doesn’t like it. But there’s a difference between this
and simply liking to kiss.”
She looks at me curiously. “What’s the difference?”
I lower my mouth to hers once more. “You,” I whisper. “I like
kissing you.”
That answers her question, because she shuts up and brings
her mouth back to mine.
I like that Rachel questions everything.
It makes me look at things in a different way.
I have always enjoyed kissing the girls I’ve kissed in the past
but only because I was attracted to them. It didn’t really have
anything to do with them in particular.
When I kissed all the other girls, I felt pleasure. That’s why
people enjoy kissing, because it feels good.
But when you like to kiss someone because of who she is, the
difference isn’t found in the pleasure.
The difference is found in the pain you feel when you’re not
kissing her.
It doesn’t hurt when I’m not kissing any of the other girls I’ve
kissed.
It only hurts when I’m not kissing Rachel.
Maybe this explains why falling in love is so damn painful.
I like kissing you, Rachel.
chapter fifteen
TATE
Miles: Are you busy?
Me: Always busy. What’s up?
Miles: I need your help. Won’t take long.
Me: Be there in five.
I should have given myself ten minutes rather than five, because I haven’t had a shower today. After a ten-hour shift last night, I’m sure I need one. If I knew he was home, a shower would have been my top priority, but I thought he wasn’t due back until tomorrow.
I pull my hair up into a loose bun and change from my pajama bottoms into a pair of jeans. It’s not quite noon yet, but I’m embarrassed to admit I was still in bed.
He yells for me to come in after I knock on his door, so I push it open. He’s standing on a chair next to one of the living-room windows. He glances down at me, then nods his head toward a chair.
“Grab that chair and push it right there,” he says, pointing to a spot a few feet away from him. “I’m trying to measure these, but I’ve never bought curtains before. I don’t know if I’m supposed to measure the outside frame or the actual window itself.”
Well, I’ll be damned. He’s buying curtains.
I scoot the chair to the other side of the window and climb up onto it. He hands me one end of the measuring tape and begins to pull.
“It all depends on what kind of curtains you want, so I’d get measurements for both,” I suggest.
He’s dressed casually again in a pair of jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Somehow the dark blue in his shirt make his eyes look less blue. It makes them look clear. See-through, almost, but I know that’s impossible. His eyes are anything but see-through with that wall he keeps up behind them.
He enters the measurement into his phone, and then we take a second measurement. Once he’s got both entered into his phone, we step down and push the chairs back under the table.
“What about a rug?” he asks, staring at the floor beneath the table. “You think I should get a rug?”
I shrug. “Depends on what you like.”
He nods his head slowly, still staring down at the bare floor.
“I don’t know what I like anymore,” he says quietly. He tosses the tape measure onto the couch and looks at me. “You want to come?”
I refrain from immediately nodding. “Where to?”
He brushes his hair off his forehead and reaches for his jacket tossed over the back of his couch. “Wherever people buy curtains.”
I should say no. Picking out curtains is something couples do. Picking out curtains is something friends do. Picking out curtains is not something Miles and Tate should do if they want to stick to their rules, but I absolutely, positively, most definitely don’t want to do anything else.
I shrug to make my answer appear much more casual than it is. “Sure. Let me lock my door.”
• • •
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask him once we’re on the elevator. I’m trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but I can’t deny the desire I have for him to reach out and touch me. A kiss, a hug . . . anything. We’re standing on opposite sides of the elevator, though. We haven’t touched since the night we first had sex. We haven’t even spoken or texted since then, either.
“Black?” he says, unsure of his own answer. “I like black.”
I shake my head. “You can’t decorate with black curtains. You need color. Maybe something close to black but not black.”
“Navy?” he asks. I notice his eyes aren’t focused on mine anymore. His eyes are scrolling slowly from my neck all the way down to my feet. Everywhere his eyes focus, I can feel it.
“Navy might work,” I say quietly. I’m pretty sure this conversation is only taking place for the sake of having conversation. I can see by the way he’s looking at me that neither of us is thinking about colors or curtains or rugs right now.
“Do you have to work tonight, Tate?”
I nod. I like that he’s thinking about tonight, and I love how he ends most of his questions with my name. I love how he says my name. I should require him to say my name every time he speaks to me. “I don’t have to be in until ten.”
The elevator reaches the bottom floor, and we both move to the doors at the same time. His hand connects with the small of my back, and the current that moves through me is undeniable. I’ve had crushes on guys before, hell, I’ve even been in love with guys before, but none of their touches have ever been able to make me respond the way his do.
As soon as I step off the elevator, his hand leaves my back. I’m more aware of the absence of his touch now than before he even touched me. Each little bit I get, I crave it that much more.
Cap isn’t in his usual spot. That’s not surprising, though, considering it’s only noon. He’s not much of a morning person. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.
“You feel like walking?” Miles asks.
I tell him yes, despite the fact that it’s cold out. I prefer walking, and we’re near several stores that would work for what he’s looking for. I suggest a store I passed a couple of weeks ago that’s only two blocks from where we are.
“After you,” he says, holding the door open for me. I step outside and pull my coat a little tighter around me. I highly doubt Miles is the type of guy who holds hands in public, so I don’t even worry about making my hands available to him. I hug myself to keep warm, and we begin walking side-by-side.