“I forgot my books,” I tell him. “I think they’re in the bathroom.”
“Sure, of course. Do you . . . want me to grab them?” His eyebrows peek out above his glasses.
“I can do it,” I say, walking inside the apartment.
“Hopefully they’re still there and Tinker Bell hasn’t sprinkled them with pixie dust and sent them off to Neverland,” he says. Then he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
I smile because he’s all kinds of adorable right now as he’s running a hand through his hair, and suddenly I know the excitement and the butterflies in my belly are because of him and not just because I’ve missed being around people. It’s all just Briggs. A man I barely even know. Strange.
“I better go see if they’re still there, then.” I play along, heading toward the bathroom.
It dawns on me, as I grab the bag of books off the yellow-and-white checkered tile floor and walk back into the princess living room, that this interaction with Briggs reminds me of something.
“Have you seen the movie Notting Hill?” I ask Briggs.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t.”
“It’s one of my favorites. I’ve seen it like probably ten times or maybe even more,” I tell him. “Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. He owns a bookstore, and she’s an actress.”
“Oh,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Sounds familiar.”
“In the movie, he even invites her back to his place after spilling orange juice on her shirt.”
“That’s . . . really strange,” he says, that space between his brows pinched.
I smile as I think of the rest of that scene—Hugh Grant standing there, looking surprised, the slight raise of his brows indicating he didn’t think he’d ever see Julia Roberts’s character again, and then there she was.
Kind of like how Briggs is looking at me now.
“She even leaves his place and then has to come back because she forgot her shopping bags.”
“Wow,” he says. “Was his apartment princess and fairy themed, by chance?”
I shake my head. “Sadly, no.”
“That’s a shame,” he says. “That could have taken the film to a whole other level.”
“Definitely a missed opportunity.”
“So, what happens after she comes back for her stuff? In the movie?”
The corner of my mouth lifts up of its own accord. “She kisses him, actually.”
“Oh,” Briggs says, his eyes going a little wider behind his glasses.
“It’s kind of a weird kiss, to be honest,” I tell him. “Very out of the blue, and a little stilted.”
“And this is your favorite movie?”
“I mean, there are better kisses after that first one. But yeah, it’s funny and lighthearted,” I say. “You should watch it.”
“I apparently just lived it,” he says.
We both have silly grins on our faces now. “Okay, well, I’m really leaving this time,” I say, holding the bag of books up as evidence.
I walk to the door, Briggs behind me, just like the first time I tried to leave. He opens the door, and I step out.
Maybe I’m caught up in the moment with Notting Hill in my head, or maybe it’s the thought of going back to the resort to live out my self-imposed solitary confinement sentence, or maybe I really am unhinged, because there’s no good explanation for what I do next.
I turn back toward Briggs, lift up on my toes, wrap the arm that’s not holding my books and wet shirt around his neck, and I kiss him squarely on the mouth.
I only mean for it to be a quick peck, but as soon as my lips touch his, my eyes flutter closed, and I’m entranced.
His lips are soft and pillowy, and not what I expected. I can’t stop myself from leaning in, adding more pressure to the kiss.
For a second, he’s a statue, caught off guard by my forwardness, but then his body melts into mine, his arms snaking around my back and practically lifting me. The smashing of our lips morphs into movement then, soft and slow, both of us giving and taking.
I can feel his hands solid on my back, fingers splayed as he holds me, and our lips move together. One hand moves up and presses against the base of my skull, angling me back just so, giving him more access.
Oh man. I totally get why Julia Roberts’s character kissed the nerdy-cute bookstore owner in Notting Hill. This kiss is everything. Not awkward and stilted like the movie, though—hotter and more intense. Not in a chaotic I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off sort of way, but like a slow sort of dance.
The distant, muted sound of bells jingling on a door makes Briggs pull out of the kiss. I can feel and hear his startled intake of breath. Or maybe that was me.
Presley James, what have you done?
He slowly sets me back down so my heels touch the floor beneath them, and removing his arms, he takes a tiny step back.
“Sorry,” I say, breathlessly, feeling a bit shell shocked. Did we really just do that? Did I just do that?
