12. May I?

Briar

Tonight I've only had one glass, so I can't blame the wine for the way I feel right now.

Flirty. Curious. Hungry.

I can't blame my MO either, since flirty isn't my usual speed. When I go out with friends, I'm usually the designated driver. The mom of the group. My dad's constant warnings about being reliable and dependable above all stuck with me.

But I'm just so ready to say screw it for the rest of the night.

As Hollis's question lingers in the hazy night—wanna share—I shrug and let my fuck it playlist be my guide. "Well, I do owe you one," I say as the song grows louder.

His lips curve up in a thoroughly kissable grin as he recalls the favor I promised him the night he saved my cat with his friends. His eyes stray to the bubbling jacuzzi in front of us, steam wafting up in invitation. "Then I'll cash in that favor for a hot tub."

Company in the form of a kind and very easy-on-the-eyes man works for me. I've been so tightly wound since the breakup, trying to keep it together as I tried to balance searching for an apartment, launching the app, and prepping for the festival. But reading that awful article tonight tipped my stress right over. I want to forget how it felt to read Steven's cutting words.

Perhaps Hollis can help. Hollis, with his easy smile. His surprisingly thoughtful attitude. His humor.

And, as I look at him a beat longer, his sea-blue eyes, his muscles for days, and that constellation of blue ink-spot bruises that travel across the fair skin of his shoulders and abs.

I want to touch them gently, ask if they hurt.

Yes, he's a very nice distraction from my shitty night. Even Donut thinks so. She hasn't let him out of her eyesight. She's stretched on the wooden planks of the deck, watching his every move as he heads to his duffel wearing nothing but that low-slung towel. He grabs the bag and slings it on his shoulder. "Be right back."

I didn't stare before, wanting to respect his privacy, but I peek now, cataloging the breadth of his chest, the strength of his legs, and most of all, the crook in his grin as he heads inside, leaving me with a wink and a fizzy feeling in my chest that I can't entirely blame on the Chablis.

The guy is lightning fast. I barely have a few seconds to catch my breath, since he's striding right back out onto the deck wearing yellow board shorts and holding a mug. I look him up and down appraisingly. "You're speedy."

"I'm fast at some things. Not others."

Well, that's an invitation, and I take it. "What are you fast at?"

Setting the mug on the wood planks of the deck, he dips a toe in the water. "Skating. Talking. Listening to a woman."

"And what do you take slowly?"

He steps into the hot tub, releasing a slow and satisfied breath as the water caresses his legs. "Getting into a hot tub. Enjoying a meal. Making sure everyone is satisfied," he says, letting that last one float temptingly over to me.

He sinks down, sighing appreciatively as he disappears into the water. I join him, sitting across from him on the other side as my pop playlist cycles to the next tune—an upbeat number on moving on, full of brassy vocals and power chords.

Hollis dips his head back in the water then slides his hands through his hair and groans. Watching him enter a hot tub is one of the sexiest things I've ever seen. It's exciting to watch a man enjoy something so unabashedly. So often men seem to hold back, unless they're watching or playing sports. They rarely, or so I suspect, show their true selves. But there's something refreshingly honest about his visceral enjoyment, then the words, "Fuck me. This is niiiiice."

"Would you like a minute alone with the hot tub?"

Laughing, he shakes his head. "Nope. Hot tubs are like singing and showers. Best enjoyed together."

"I look forward to your morning shower serenade then," I say.

"You've been warned, Briar." He stretches his arms across the back of the tub. "Thanks for sharing. I needed this."

"Rough game?"

"Definitely."

"You should be doing more yoga," I tease.

"You're not wrong."

"It definitely helps with muscle stiffness," I say.

He smirks, perhaps thinking of other stiff things. Or maybe that's just my mind jumping ahead.

He looks around the deck, craning his neck at the stars, then the rolling hills, then the house and finally me. He gestures to my glass. "Now tell me. Why are you drinking regret?"

I grab the nearby bottle, waggling it. "Want to try some? It's a good vintage. A crisp white regret."

"Sounds perfect post-game."

He reaches for his mug and hands it to me. I pour some Chablis, then give it back to him. After a drink, he whistles in approval but then asks again, his expression serious now. "What's going on? Why is this a hot tub of contemplation?"

"It's nothing. I don't want to ruin the vibe," I say, dismissing my earlier comment.

He wiggles his fingers. "Come on. You can't ruin the vibe."

"Oh, I bet I could."

He studies me, arches a brow. "Let's see. You're contemplating life choices in a hot tub. Is it the ex-hole again?"

I grimace, and that's answer enough.

He growls. "You didn't get back together with him, did you?"

I scoff. If I'd been drinking, I would've done a spit-take all over the hot tub. "Do I look stupid?"

"No, you look smart, and smart is hot."

I freeze for a second, letting that compliment sink in. I haven't gotten one like that before, but I like it. "He wrote an article for his website about signs a relationship is in trouble, and he was clearly referencing me without naming me."

Hollis growls, low and menacing. "That guy is the worst."

I'm not usually a blurter. I'm more measured. I keep things inside. But that article unlocked something in me. Something fiery, something angry, so I let it all out. "He said we had no chemistry," I continue, surprised at how easily the details, embarrassing and insulting as they are, spill out. "His top ten list of red flags was about me. A lack of chemistry. A lack of desire. Claiming I didn't know how to kiss."

Hollis blinks, then blinks again, like I can't actually have said that. "Okay, so this guy steals your cat. And for the record, if someone stole my cat, I would have them arrested for a felony. Now, he's talked shit about your fucking sex life? Can I say it?"

"Say what?" I ask, curiously.

"I would like to murder him."

It's spoken nonchalantly, like the only answer for an ex-hole of this magnitude is offing him—and I like it.

"But then how would you take care of the cat in prison?" I ask.

He hums thoughtfully. "You're right. I will refrain from murder for now."

"Then I won't go into details on how he basically said he never liked kissing me," I say. Maybe I am ruining a flirty vibe. But the fact is I'm still ridiculously hurt from reading Steven's veiled but cruel words.

Hollis's eyes are fiery with rage. Maybe he would like to unalive Steven. "He really wrote that?"

"He did. I don't know why I ever trusted him, and I don't know why I didn't see this nasty side in him." Though maybe I do. Steven was all in from the start. For someone who's always sure she's being left, Steven's commitment was a drug. I knock back the rest of my wine, then sigh in admission. "But maybe he's right. I'm not sure I loved kissing him either. I don't know that I felt the chemistry either."

Hollis's smile is pleased and a little smug. "There you go," he says, slapping the water, almost triumphantly. "It wasn't you. It was him."

"I appreciate that. But doesn't it take two to kiss?"

"It does. But that's only part of what makes a kiss good," Hollis says, and his tone is rougher, a little husky.

Just like that, we're not talking about my ex anymore. We're talking about kissing. "Well, what's the other part?"

The water bubbles around us. My playlist shifts to a romantic tune, a little sultry, a touch sexy, and I'm not entirely sure how this tune is on this playlist, but the pulsing sounds and the soft groove seem to melt into the night. "Communication. Understanding what a woman wants. Listening to her. Reading her body language. Giving her what she needs."

A hot curl of desire unfurls inside my chest, like liquid heat pouring through my body. "Like what sort of things would she need?"

His deep blue eyes hold mine, and for a few seconds, restraint seems to flicker across his irises. Maybe even a touch of concern. For me? For my recent breakup? I'm not sure. But he must let go of his questions, since he asks me instead, "Does she like it slow and sensual? Hot and passionate? Deep and possessive? A gentle caress? An exploration?"

I don't say a word for several seconds. I just feel his words. The possibilities. And the dangerous flutters in my chest. Then, because tonight I'm not holding back, I admit something else. "I don't know the answers," I say.

"Why's that?" he asks, like he can't let go of this train of thought either.

I could blame the hot tub. I could maybe blame the wine but I've only had two glasses in two hours. Instead, I blame my ex as I serve up the next truth. "He's the only guy I've been with for the last few years. I'm not even sure I've ever had a really great kiss. The kind that makes your knees weak. That makes your chest tingle. That feels like melting. With him or anyone."

There. It's said. It's out there. I'm the yoga girl who's supposedly in touch with her body, but I've never truly enjoyed intimacy with another person.

I've had sex. I just haven't ever loved it. I'd like to though.

Hollis is flustered for a few seconds, mouth agape, eyes wide. "But that's terrible. That's criminal. That's…just wrong." Then he shakes off his shock. He's strong, confident, the guy who scaled a balcony to rescue a cat. "Everyone should have a great kiss."

I tilt my head, offer a small and hopefully seductive smile. "Why's that?"

"Because kissing is another thing that shouldn't be rushed. It should be savored. It should be enjoyed. It should be drunk slowly like a glass of fine wine."

I don't feel like the mom of the group tonight. I don't feel like the wingwoman. I feel like my own problem solver. The girl who's had enough bad luck. "I don't know what that's like." Then I push past my nerves. "But I'd like to. Maybe this should be the real favor."

He studies me, and questions seem to flash across his eyes. Contemplation, like he's wrestling with something. I see restraint in them once more, then guilt flickers again, clear and obvious. I don't know what to make of the guilt but it passes, turning into fuck it. "Let me make one thing clear—this is not a favor. You don't owe me this. But I really want to kiss you, and I'd love to help you figure out how you want to be kissed."

"You do?" I ask the question not because I don't believe him, but because his voice right now is vibrating in my bones. I want to feel that buzz again.

"I really do. And I think I've got a good idea on how to start." He takes a beat. "May I?"

It's the may I that does me in.