Turn 9 of 15

Pull Jack closer and kiss him before the ceremony starts

You don't think about it. That's the thing. Your hand is on his arm and the gong is still ringing and guests are shuffling toward rows of white chairs, and something inside you, something that isn't quite you, surges up and takes the wheel. You turn, grab the front of Jack's shirt, and pull him down to you.

The kiss lands clumsy and off-center at first, your mouth catching the corner of his, but then he makes a sound against your lips that's half surprise and something else, and his hand comes up to the side of your face, and the kiss finds its footing. His palm is warm against your cheek, and you can feel the rough calluses on his fingers, and the necklace pulses hot against your collarbone, and your whole body goes liquid and bright. He tastes like coffee and peppermint gum, and you know this because you've shared a hundred coffees with him, but you've never known it like this, close and warm and devastating.

He pulls back first. His eyes are wide, and his hand is still on your face, and his breathing is uneven. Behind him, a couple in their sixties is pretending very hard to study the floral arrangement on the nearest pillar. Jack's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"What was—I mean—"

"People are watching," you murmur, and you're horrified to hear that your voice is playful, teasing, like you planned this, like you're the kind of girl who kisses men in public to make a point. "We're supposed to be dating, remember?"

Jack stares at you for another beat. His thumb moves against your cheekbone, an unconscious gesture, and then he drops his hand and steps back and clears his throat.

"Right. Yeah. Good thinking. Very committed performance."

The words are light but his voice is rough, and you can see the color in his face, the way he's not meeting your eyes. Something in your chest sings at the sight of it. He felt that. You can tell. Whatever wall he's built around Lauren, whatever residual wound she represents, you just put a crack in it, and the crack is shaped like your mouth.

The gong sounds again, and a voice calls for guests to be seated. Jack offers his arm without looking at you, and you take it, and you can feel his pulse hammering through his shirtsleeve. The jealousy is still there, coiled and hot, but now there's something else beside it, something warm and electric and dangerous. You wanted his attention. You have it. The question is what you're going to do with it, and whether you'll still want the answer once the necklace comes off.

He guides you to a pair of empty chairs in the third row, and you sit, and your knee presses against his, and neither of you moves it.