16. Wyn

I have at least a hundred things I need to check on today and a hundred more things tomorrow. I'm on a deadline. The wedding is in three days. I know I sometimes use the phrase go-time a little liberally, but believe me, this is it. It's go-time now.

Yet here I am. Not going anywhere. Standing around like a fucking idiot, re-reading a message Derek sent me over an hour ago. I don't know what's wrong with me.

I mean, maybe I do know. Maybe I have an inkling.

We should kiss next time we see each other.

We should kiss, is he for real? Kiss how? On the mouth? With tongue? No tongue? What?

Will it be a normal kiss or a stage kiss? You know, one of those movie kisses where they look like they're trying to eat each other, but their tongues stay right out of it. I saw an interview with an emerging Hollywood starlet once who said she didn't realize the whole no-tongue deal. No one told her, poor thing. So when she did her first sex scene, she just went in all gung-ho and used tongue. The director had to pull her aside later and tell her that's not how it's done. It was mortifying. Mortifying for her. Mortifying for me. Just watching the interview where she mentioned it gave me the worst case of secondhand embarrassment.

It's going to be beyond mortifying if I kiss Derek wrong.

What kind of kiss?I type and delete.

Stage kiss or real kiss?He probably won't have a clue what I mean. Delete.

Kiss with tongue or just a peck?No, that's worse. Sounds deranged and desperate. Delete.

God. I'm unraveling. I need help.

I need Bridget so badly right now I'm almost considering calling her and confessing my plethora of sins. The only thing stopping me is that I already know exactly what she'll say. Red flag this and red flag that, topped off with a nice, loud, "Resign!"

I look up to see Derek stalking down the path toward me. His hips and shoulders move like a panther as he emerges from a forest of greenery. He's wearing a white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looks fresh. Sunkissed. His hair is wet, pushed back off his face, and holy fucking fuck, he looks even hotter than usual.

Is that possible? Can people do that, just willy-nilly get hotter?

If so, I'm in deep trouble.

"Are they watching?" Derek asks quietly when he's a few feet away. I look over his shoulder and nod wordlessly. Miller, Barbara Anne, and Sage are huddled together near the cocktail bar, deeply engrossed in conversation. "Okay, take a moment to prepare yourself."

A quick flash of annoyance heats my face. Again with the prepare yourself talk. Arrogant much?

"I think I can handle a kiss. Thank you very much."

"Yeah, well, I hope so." His bottom lip curves, and there's something so slow and seductive about it that my entire field of vision narrows, and I'm suddenly acutely aware that I can feel my pulse in my face. "I'm one hell of a kisser, so you're going to feel it."

"You're so arrogant," I hiss. For some reason, it sounds more like a compliment than anything else.

The space between us closes. It shrinks until it's nothing. Until Derek's right in front of me and our toes are almost touching. He leans down, circling my waist with one arm, scooping me up so I'm on my toes. Swaying and weightless. My chest is pressed against his. My mouth inches from his. A kaleidoscope of butterflies bursts to life in my belly and simultaneously flap their wings. I try to remember how to breathe, but I come up empty.

His eyes are on mine, black as night. I can't blink, and I can't look away. I also can't tell if he's sucked me into his mind or if he's somehow gotten into mine. While I try my best to work all that out, he slides his free hand around my neck, tracing my jawline with the pad of his thumb. I feel small and insignificant. Like a twig he could snap between his fingers. I make a valiant attempt to swallow my nerves, but the mechanics of my throat are on the blink, so I suck my lower lip into my mouth and gnaw the hell out of it instead.

Derek runs his thumb across my lip, gently tugging it free from my teeth. His touch is light. Barely there, but it grazes the life out of me all the same.

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit!

He's not just arrogant. Derek MacAvoy is going to be one hell of a kisser. I can feel it.

There's a hum of warm breath being exhaled. His. It's his. I know because I feel it on my skin, dancing across the bottom half of my face. He lowers his lips onto mine, and a sharp bolt of electricity shoots through me on contact. His lips are soft and warm. So soft and so warm. Softer and warmer than I ever thought possible. His kiss is soft too. Tentative. Gentle. Just a study of flesh on flesh. His lips and mine melded together.

He kisses me again. And again. Softer and softer still.

Without any warning, the grip on my waist tightens and becomes rough. He lifts me and drags me a step or two to the left.

My feet leave the ground.

We're still in view but now we're half-hidden too. It's Derek and me and a jungle of leaves. It feels different now. Less on display. More real.

His eyes dip to my mouth and then up to my eyes. He doesn't blink as he leans in. This time, there's nothing gentle about it. His lips are on mine in an instant. Hard. They're on mine hard, his tongue snaking into my mouth. Seeking and taking. Taking and winning. Owning my mouth with a single sweep of his tongue.

By the time I come up for air, I feel as though I've had a lobotomy. I feel sideways. Off-kilter like I've been robbed of my balance. I take a couple of unsteady steps toward the rest of our party.

I don't need to look up to feel Derek's concern.

"I'm fine," I snap.

Dinner is torturous. My feet are back on the ground, but I'm off in the ether. I drift in and out of stilted conversations about vacations in Paris and skiing in Vail. Barbara Anne is wearing a strappy gold dress that looks like it was made for Athena. Now and again, Sage feeds her fruit and nuts from his fingers. I catch Miller's eye when it happens, and he scrunches his face up and silently gags until Ryan elbows him in the ribs.

The entire time, Derek's presence beside me burns a hole in my chest. A hole that grows and drifts downward the longer the meal drags on. When it becomes clear that pi?a coladas are woefully ineffective at bringing me back to myself, I accept defeat, smiling and nodding when anyone talks to me and focus on nothing but Derek's casual touch.

Deep, heavy pressure where his knee touches mine.

A low, liquid voice runs down my spine when he leans over to whisper into my ear.

A hand on the back of my neck as Ryan's grandparents talk. I can't tell you much about what they say, but their voices grow distant when Derek's hand travels slowly up to my hairline. My scalp tingles from the back of my head, over my crown, spilling down my face, and when he winds his fingers into my curls and tugs gently, every hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

The rest of the party fades to black. I'm acutely aware that what's happening is no more than performative art, but it feels like Derek and I are the only people at the table.

"How's Bridget?" he asks, head tilted toward me. "And how's her turd ex-boyfriend?"

Like that, I'm off at a canter. "Well, she's off the sofa and wearing real clothes. I'm talking jeans with buttons and zippers, not even jeggings."

"Jeans, huh?" He doesn't smile exactly, but a long line cuts into one cheek, curving around his mouth, and his eyes glimmer.

"Yep, jeans. Not only that, she got bangs." I use both hands elaborately to paint an accurate picture, drawing straight lines and squares around my face in a manner reminiscent of a dance from the eighties or nineties. "She looks unreal. Her hair's all glossy and sleek, and it's giving get out of my way and get in line at the same time."

I'm working my way up to an epic chin wag, but I don't have time to get there. The line on Derek's cheek deepens and gives way. His lips peel back and a soft, throaty laugh undoes me.

"Revenge hair," he says softly. "I love it."

"Revenge hair," I say two or three times. "T-that's what I said."