“Excellent. Glad to hear it,” I say. Oliver turns his face to me, mouthing, You’re brilliant.
“Smile for the camera,” Noah says, and holds up his phone. “New hashtag. ‘America’s Best Boyfriend.’”
And America’s Best Boyfriend deserves a kiss. I lean in and press my lips chastely to his cheek when Oliver says, “Let’s give them something to hashtag about.”
16SUMMER
I’ve thought about kissing Oliver before. My mind has gone there every now and then.
It’s not like I’ve mooned over him.
Please. I’m a grown woman. I don’t moon.
It’s been more of a . . . consideration. A visit to another town, just to peek around, see the shops, check out the scenery.
That’s all it is, because I’ve had enough experience with this inconvenient crush that it’s no longer inconvenient. I can turn it off anytime. Hell, I turn it off most of the time. I guess that makes it a convenient crush.
But when I have let my mind skip over the border to Kissingville, there’s a buildup. I picture us at a bar, on the beach, along the boardwalk.
There is always a moment. A movie moment that I see coming.
But now I’m completely blindsided, and I have no time to brace for the most unexpected kiss of my life.
I close my eyes the second his lips touch mine.
No, the world doesn’t stop.
No, I don’t melt.
And no, I don’t stop breathing when Oliver brushes his mouth against mine.
What happens is far more wondrous.
I feel good everywhere.
There’s not a corner forgotten or untouched.
I’ve taken a happiness drug, and it’s flooding my veins with a dreamy, dizzying sensation, and every molecule is tingling.
It’s sunshine and music, this feeling of his lips dusting mine with a soft, tender ghost of a kiss.
A gentle slide.
A delicious sigh.
His lips trace mine for the very first time and the kiss sweeps through me, lights flickering on like fireflies in June.
I’m illuminated by a kiss that feels like floating.
His lips are soft, full, and confident.
They brush against me, making me tremble, making my skin shimmer.
It’s possible I’m glowing.
Because holy hell.
Oliver Harris is proving Stella’s theory wrong.
This man can kiss.
Oh my, he can kiss so damn well.
My knees wobble, my stomach flips, and shivers rush down my arms, skating across my skin.
One touch of his lips, one flick of his tongue, and I am tumbling out of this-is-so-easy zone and into what-the-hell-was-I-thinking land.
Pretending to be his fiancée is no longer the simplest thing, not when I know now exactly what I’m missing.
I’m missing him.
I’m missing a kiss that makes me want to sing.
I’m missing this possibility beyond my reach.
Then, that possibility turns hotter, burns brighter. Oliver’s hand cups my cheek, grazing my skin, making me shudder. His fingertips trail down my face.
And he lingers, his thumb sliding along my jaw. It’s almost like he doesn’t want this to end either. His lips luxuriate on mine for one last second, and right when I swear he’s about to pull away, his tongue flicks out across my bottom lip.
