Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tallula

T he motorcycle rumbles beneath us as we coast along the country roads, past Daley Farms with its sweet potato fields, and west toward the slowly lowering sun.

It's a beautiful afternoon and with my arms wrapped around Jesse, I can't help but feel like life is hugging me after I got a swift kick in the backside—the whole mess with Peter and the information I'm not sure what to make of related to the Lawsons and Swan's Syrups.

I rest my cheek on Jesse's back, hoping to put all that out of my mind for now. This ride feels the same as the first time but different. Before I was certain I was leaving. All these years later, I think I want to stay here for a good long while.

When Jesse pulls off the main road and toward a small overlook with a view, my heart hammers in my chest as if trying to keep up with the speed of the bike. This is where we stopped after detention. My chest swells. Aside from the detour to his old house, he planned a reenactment of our first ride.

Will we kiss? My pulse raps out a hopeful answer.

He unpacks the small picnic for us, complete with a blanket, two cans of root beer, and cold-cut sandwiches from the Laughing Gator Grille—the only game in town.

"It's nothing fancy," Jesse says as if slightly shy.

"It's perfect."

We share a bag of potato chips and chat about high school, each of us daring the other to go to the reunion next spring.

"I'm not sure I could handle it," I say.

He nudges me with his elbow. "We could go together."

"The bad boy and the good girl. We were such a pair of stereotypes."

"Cliches," he adds.

"I was the perfect little princess."

"I was the rebel without a cause."

"We were like stock characters in a teen movie."

We talk about who would've been cast in some of the other roles like jock, nerd, and weirdo.

"What did you think of me?" I ask.

"You sure you want to know?"

I nod, feeling brave. "That you were a snob, a rich girl. In Mrs. Boardman's Home Economics class, you'd pronounce the word cuisine like this queyseene ."

I swat his arm. "I did not."

"And gourmet was gauhhrmay like you were French. "

I bump him with my shoulder. "I am French and that is how you say gourmet ."

He chuckles. "Also, that you were untouchable, unattainable, and very very pretty."

My pink cheeks tell me that I like the sound of that.

Jesse's gaze drifts to mine.

I ask, "On a sliding scale of glow up to washed up do you still think those things?"

"That you're a snob? No. But we made a rule about the glow thing. If you want to know what I think of you now, you're gorgeous, sweet, thoughtful, kind, hardworking, and getting closer and closer every day to realizing how much I like you."

My jaw lowers. Things have changed, especially how handsome Jesse is in (and out of) uniform, how polite he is when he stops in for tea, and how I can't seem to get him out of my mind.

"How about me?" he asks.

"You're doing a pretty good job showing me you weren't who I thought you were. Though, it appears you have a fondness for your version of doughnuts and coffee."

"Beignet buns and tea? What can I say, it comes with the territory." He pats his abs. "But I should watch my physique."

"You mean your washboard abs?"

"How do you?—?"

"I saw you after your run and leaving the bathroom the other day after a shower."

He arches an eyebrow. "Thelma would not approve? "

"You sure about that? She looked rather encouraging when we left earlier." I inch nearer.

"Hmm. You do have a point." Jesse, balanced on his elbow and with one leg kicked out long, lifts onto his palm.

The space between us gets warmer the closer we get. I lean in, welcoming it on this crisp autumn evening.

His gaze dips to mine. My lips part.

Wearing that side smile that drives me wild, he says, "This rerun of our first ride out here is better than before, and I think we should do something about this."

"About what?" I ask, my voice a whisper.

He wags his finger between us, mere inches apart. "About us."

Not another word needs to be spoken. Our mouths crush together. I don't know what I expected when a former good girl and a former bad boy kiss, but this is explosive. The digital hearts inside multiply and then explode like confetti.

This is better than golden awards, accolades, and parades. I always felt like I was playing a role. Except with Jesse. This is very, very real.

My hands slide up his arms as we continue to kiss, pulses jumping. His fingers thread into my hair and a happy little sound escapes.

I feel a grin grow on his lips. He pulls back slightly, gaze heavy and not wavering from mine.

"This is better than the first time," I whisper.

His knuckles graze my jawline. "For a long time, I was afraid you'd remember and regret it. "

"No, Jesse, I could never forget. I remember everything about that day. About you."

"Me too. I'm not proud."

"But now, you have every reason to be."

As if afraid of what we might say next, once more, our lips crush together. This kiss is more intense than mere moments ago. It's like we both know what we want and are willing to tell the other, but not with words. Not yet.

As the kiss deepens, my last thought is this would be the one called Mugs and Kisses —coffee and tea mugs, mug shots—then my mind goes quiet, save for a vague awareness of Jesse's spicy aftershave and leather scent, his rough hands trailing across my back and toward the nape of my neck, and the way his lips feel on mine, which is better than good.