If You Never Come Back E-Book

Sarah Smith

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 266

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

I hate Valentine's Day for one reason and one reason only: Wes Paulsen. He came into my life like a wrecking ball one year ago today. After an incredible night together, we were inseparable for months. I'd never been happier in a relationship—neither had he. We were just starting to build a life together when everything changed... Turns out Wes was hiding things from me—big things. I wanted to work through it, but he walked out, never giving me—never giving us a chance. I didn't know how I'd be able to get over him, but I threw myself into my art. After months of working nonstop to escape the memories of Wes, my career's finally taking off and what do you know—Wes walked back into my life. Once again on Valentine's Day. One year to the day that we met. I've spent six months hardening my heart. It should be easy to reject him, to tell him I've moved on. But he's doing everything—and more—to win me back. He's being the boyfriend I've always wanted. It'll take everything in me to resist him—I'm not even sure if I can. But I'll sure as hell try.

Leseprobe

IF YOU NEVER COME BACK

SARAH SMITH

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Did you enjoy reading this?

Acknowledgments

Also by Sarah Smith

I. Excerpt from The Boy with the Bookstore

Chapter 1

About the Author

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

If You Never Come Back

Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Smith

Ebook ISBN: 9781641971423

Cover design © 2022 Melody Jeffries

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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http://www.nyliterary.com

For Stefanie. Thank you for believing in me.

PROLOGUE

Valentine’s Day, this year

The second I set my eyes on Garret, I knew he would be good for one thing and one thing only: eye candy.

I was wrong. Sort of.

He is actually excellent eye candy. Six-foot-three, sandy blond hair, icy blue eyes, strong jawline. All of that on top of his build, which resembles that of an Olympic swimmer, and he’s hands-down the best-looking guy in this bar.

But what’s throwing me for a loop is his choice of conversation topic: eating pets.

“Kind of crazy, don’t you think?” He gestures, martini in hand. “Weird that we think it’s acceptable to eat cows and chickens, but not cats and dogs.”

The frown on his face doesn’t convey irony like I hope. Just pure, unfettered confusion. As if the single greatest mystery that exists on planet Earth is why we aren’t all chowing down on our pets.

I drain my glass with a long sip, the vodka burning my tongue. I wince, longing for the taste of tequila instead.

I will the urge away. No tequila, not ever again.

Stacy the bartender offers a single sympathetic nod as she refills my glass, this time with top-shelf vodka. I open my mouth to request the cheaper vodka, but she answers with a pointed stare. No need to explain, she wordlessly says. You have to listen to this guy talk about eating kittens and puppies on a date. The least I can do is offer a few splashes of decent alcohol.

And this is how I spend Cupid’s special day, sitting across from a hunky weirdo in the bar where I work part-time, trying not to choke on my drink.

Thank heavens that my cousin Remy isn’t here. He owns this bar, the Dandy Lime, and if he overheard this guy, he would immediately call him out. Ask him at maximum volume why Garret’s chatting about such a creepy topic. It would be entertaining and embarrassing. I love Remy to death, but it would cause a scene.

“Um, what now?”

I don’t even bother to hide the disgust in my response. I cross my arms and lean back on my barstool, widening the space between us. Garret carries on, unbothered by my reaction. Evidently, he can’t tell by my body language and dead silence over the last few minutes that I’m just not into this conversation.

He flashes a toothy grin, that same one that made my stomach flip when we locked eyes while perusing the stacks at the bookstore yesterday. That grin must be a decoy he uses to rope unsuspecting women into dates before he drops the bomb that he advocates for eating pets.

He rests his hand over my hand that’s sitting on the bar top. His clammy palm feels like a giant slug on my skin.

“So. You ready to get out of here?”

Over the rim of my glass, I squint. When I slam it down on the counter, his broad shoulders shrug up to his ears.

“Excuse me?”

Garret clears his throat just as the faintest shade of pink makes its way up his pale neck and cheeks. “I just figured…well, it’s Valentine’s Day. And um…I thought you’d be up for something more.”

I yank my hand out from under his, then take another deep breath. This time when I exhale, it’s slow, measured. There are a million invisible fire ants crawling under my skin, compelling me to toss the rest of my drink in Garret’s face for assuming I’d be willing to sleep with him just because it’s February fourteenth. Screw that.

“You know something, Garret? You’re pathetic. I don’t know why you would think I’d be desperate enough to go home with you, especially after I’ve had to sit here and listen to your bizarre monologue about eating cats and dogs.”

I fish a handful of dollar bills from my purse and slam them on the bar. “That’s for my drink and tip. Don’t leave without paying for your own.”

When I stand, I leer at him. This time he’s the one leaning away. He’s got nowhere to go, though, as the wooden edge of the bar top is digging into his back, blocking his escape.

“For the love of Christ, never, ever speak of pets as food again. It makes you sound like a serial killer.”

I yank my purse from the back of my stool before shrugging on my coat. With the fire currently coursing through my veins, I don’t even need to wear a jacket. And the single-digit chill outside will do well to cool me off. But taking the time to button my coat gives me a few extra seconds to tear Garret a new asshole.

“Lose my number,” I snap. “And if you know what’s good for you, don’t come back here again. The owner isn’t a fan of arrogant pricks like you.”

Garret offers nothing in the way of protest. Just silence and a nod. I’m out the door before I can take another breath.

I stand outside on the snow-covered pavement and breathe deep. This winter in Bend, the biggest city in central Oregon, has been a bitch with sub-zero temperatures and record snowfall. Normally, a heat demon like me would groan at having to stand outside in the icy cold. But it’s the perfect opportunity to quell the rage and frustration ravaging my insides. Hopefully these slow, even breaths I’m forcing out will work. Hopefully, that frigid arctic air will take the edge off the fire coursing through me.

I try for a minute, but judging by my racing heartbeat, the sweat beading at the back of my neck, the burn in my eyes, it’s an utter fail.

It’s not all Garret’s fault. The shit-show conversation was all him, but the reason I stand here barely able to keep myself from sobbing on a public street corner is completely on me. I don’t know why I thought Valentine’s Day would ever be normal again. I should have just stayed home in my pajamas, binged Netflix, and eaten three cartons of Haagen Dazs. Going for a drink at this bar on this night, where one year ago my world turned upside down, was the worst idea I’ve had in a long time.

Hot tears freeze against my cheeks as the frigid wind whips against me. This day will never, ever be normal again. It will never be anything other than a taunting reminder of my worst heartbreak.

A warm whoosh of air hits the backs of my legs as the door to the bar swings open behind me. Quickly, I wipe my face dry with the back of my mitten-covered hand. The last thing I need tonight is a pitying look from a passing stranger. But there are no footsteps behind me like I expect. Just the nearby downtown street noise of car honks and snow slushing against tires.

There is a single breath though. One sharp inhale, then a throat clearing. Then my name, spoken by the one person I never, ever thought I’d hear from again.

“Shay?”

I know it’s him without even having to turn around and look. The low, whispered tone he employs is so different from how he used to say my name, but I still recognize it. I’d remember that rasp anywhere.

“Wes?”

I almost don’t believe my eyes when I spin around to look at him. It’s been six months since I’ve laid eyes on him, six months since we’ve uttered a word to each other. No phone calls, no texts, no form of contact between us for more than one hundred and eighty days. But that sure as hell is him.

That mass of thick brown hair, that smooth tan skin, those earthy brown eyes. The only thing different is his facial hair. What was once the sexiest five o’clock shadow in the universe is now a well-groomed beard.

And his body…damn, that body. Even thick winter clothing can’t mar his killer physique. He’s still the proud owner of thickly muscled legs and a broad chest. All that traveling must have kept him in killer shape—

Emotion grips me by the throat, and I blink. Drooling over Wes’s exquisite body is not allowed. A handful of silent seconds passes, and I’m not tearing up anymore. In fact, all moisture has left my body. My throat is so dry that when I try to speak, I fall into a hacking fit.

He takes a step toward me, but I shake my head. Holding up my hands is my only defense. He gets the message loud and clear because he stays away. I let out a breath, relieved. If he touches me, I might fall to the ground. Or punch him. Hard to say, given how he left things. How he left me.

I whip out my phone and pull up a rideshare app. My apartment is just over a mile away; I could walk. But I need to retreat. Immediately. I can’t endure one more minute in Wes’s presence, especially after that god-awful date. If I stand here any longer than I have to, there’s no telling what I’ll do. A car ride home is the fastest way—the best way to protect myself.

I swipe my finger across the screen. The next available car is due to arrive in one minute.

“Shay, are you okay?”

His brows knit together, and my stomach does a backflip. Raw concern paints his face. Everything from the frown lines on his forehead to the purse of his lips conveys that it hurts him to see me like this. Six months ago, I would have handed over one of my organs for that look to flash across his face. That look that says he wants me and nothing else.

Instead, my body reacts differently now. I’m armed with a dry throat and unblinking eyes, struggling to process the fact that Wes Paulsen is standing twelve inches from me.

The phantom taste of tequila hits my tongue. It’s spiced oak and smoke and the faintest hint of caramel.

No tequila.

The silent command inside my head is useless. The flavor still dances on my tongue. It was his drink, then mine, then ours. And when he left, it was all I could taste.

It’s all I can taste right now.

I sink my teeth into my tongue, letting up just before I draw blood. Now all I taste is fire and acid. No more tequila. Not ever again.

The gray sedan that is my ride pulls up to the curb. For three seconds, I stand between the car and Wes, my eyes darting back and forth between them as if I’m a lost dog who can’t remember which one is my rightful guardian.

Wes tugs at the hem of his coat. It’s the same black puffer coat he wore the night I met him, a year ago today, in this bar.

“I just…can we talk?” He takes a single step toward me.

The invisible dam inside me breaks. Every word he said the night he left comes flooding back.

I snap out of my haze, blinking back the tears begging to fall down my cheeks. “Stay away from me, Wes.”

I jump into the car, slamming the door behind me. I don’t turn around to look at him. I don’t even peek at the side view mirror to catch a farewell glimpse. I just stare straight ahead, my vision blurry from all the tears.

CHAPTERONE

Valentine’s Day, last year

“Hey, Shannon! Shot of Beefeater, will you?”

I glower at the collar-popping frat bro shouting his drink order at my end of the bar. That’s the second time this evening that preppy prick has called me the wrong name.

“Listen up, Preppy Prick.”

His eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. I’m guessing not many people take that tone with this snowflake.

“My name is Shay. I’m here to serve you drinks, but that doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole and call me by the wrong name.”

The nervous laugh he lets out does little to quell my annoyance. It’s ten o’clock on Valentine’s Day and for some reason, every single man in Bend has decided to spend his evening camping out at this bar. Possibly because they’re aiming to pick up a lonely single lady on the most romantic commercial holiday of the year. That’s all well and good, but they still have to treat me with courtesy and respect.

I wave an ice pick at the unblinking douchebag standing inches from me. “What’s my name, Preppy Prick?”

He eyes the razor-sharp tip as it glimmers under the low-hanging lights above. The sleek, copper light fixtures are my favorite part of the bar décor. Remy did a hell of a job remodeling this place. He bought it for cheap when it was a run-down industrial space, investing his savings in building it up. Now it boasts an industrial-chic aesthetic that’s a hit with pretty much everyone, from hipsters to young professionals to college students. Dark wood furnishings, exposed brick walls, and mood lighting make Dandy Lime a laid-back hangout most nights. Except for tonight when I have to deal with the likes of Preppy Prick.

He stammers out the words. “Your name? Er, um, Shay.”

I stab the pick into the block of ice resting on the bar top and drag it across. “I knew you were smarter than you looked. Wanna tell me why you’ve been calling me Shannon?”

“I um…I don’t know.” His gaze darts from me to the floor to above my head, then to the side. It’s like his brain is playing ping-pong with his eyes.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. It’s hysterical how easy it is to make overconfident pricks like him squirm. All it typically takes is calling them out on their bullshit, giving them a mean nickname, and peppering them with questions. They always, always break.

It’s a skill I learned as a kid. Being one of the only mixed-raced kids in school, I got plenty of dismissive and ignorant comments. White kids remarking that I wasn’t white enough; Asian kids remarking that I wasn’t Asian enough. It was the epitome of ironic, seeing as I’m both. But when I started calling people out, the comments stopped. As I got older, I got bolder, informing any hecklers that if I wanted their worthless opinion on what they thought of me, I’d ask. But I didn’t ask them. So I’d tell them to shut the fuck up. They always did.

I employ that same snark and attitude as a twenty-seven-year-old woman. “Well, let me tell you what I know, Preppy Prick. That’s your name from now on, by the way, if you order a drink from me ever again.” I point to his neck with the ice pick. “That popped collar is atrocious. Fold it down.”

“But I—”

“Hey, everyone!” The hum of chatter falls silent as every pair of eyes in the bar turns to me. “Who else thinks this prick should fold down that godforsaken popped collar?”

Every arm shoots up. He obeys with fumbling fingers.

I lean over the counter to him, our faces inches apart. “I may not be a country club cum stain who calls people by the wrong name on purpose like you, but when you’re in this bar, you will treat me, every other staff member, and patron with respect. Understand?”

His wordless nod and frantic blinking indicate that he finally gets my drift.

“You said Beefeater, right?”

He nods, still playing eye ping-pong with himself. I pour two shots and slide them to him before swiping the cash from his hand.

A hand taps me on the back. I turn to see Remy beaming at me. “That was a thing of beauty, the way you gave that douche a dressing down.”

I shrug. “It was nothing.”

“Cuz, it was everything.”

He squeezes my shoulder, earning a chuckle from me. Remy and I have the same half-white, half-Filipino background, but he got some Goliath genes on his dad’s side. He stands six-foot-three with the build of a linebacker. Utter sweetheart, though, always showering patrons with compliments and praise, always offering hugs and high-fives.

“I just wish you didn’t cut back your hours,” he says.

“Come on, Remy,” I groan. “I need the extra time to focus on my business.”

He shakes his head and gives me a side hug. He’s the only human being whose side hugs are as cuddly as his full-on ones. I breathe through the squeeze.

“I know. Just thought I’d beg one last time. I’m so proud of you. You know I ordered a print of your latest cityscape watercolor, right?”

I smack his arm. “Don’t do that! I would have given it to you for free if you just asked.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I want the full customer experience.”

I bite back a grin when I think about Remy’s sweet gesture. For the past five years, I’ve slowly built my art business. It was a struggle at first. Trying to make a decent living as a painter-slash-digital artist is no easy task. I’ve always had to work full-time in office jobs to make ends meet. My paintings and digital prints always generated side money, never enough to justify going full time.

But this past year, I went full force. I created an Etsy shop along with my own website and social media account. I started posting higher quality photos of my work and became more active on Twitter and Instagram. I put out more artwork, more consistently. The result? Three months ago I finally earned enough to quit my soul-sucking job at a local insurance brokerage and focus full time on my shop and artwork. Bartending in the evenings helped me stay afloat, but now I’m making enough that I only have to work a few nights a week at Dandy Lime.

Goosebumps flash across my skin when I think of just how far I’ve come and how much more I want to accomplish.

Remy hand’s fall on his hips. “Now, your prize for being a star employee and verbally kicking Preppy Prick’s ass is to take the table in the corner.”

He points across the bar to a table of late-twenties men, who are slapping backs and downing shots.

I roll my eyes and suppress a groan. “You’re punishing me because I’m cutting back my hours, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. They’re a little loud, but they’ve been polite the whole time they’ve been here. And they’ve been tipping generously. Have at it.”

I perk up at the mention of generous tips and give them my best pageant smile when I clear the empties from their table. “Can I top off anyone’s drinks?”

A couple of them ask for refills on their beers, but then a third holds his hand up. “Wait, wait. Can we ask you to do us a favor first? If it’s not too much trouble?”

My smile turns tight. I wonder what this “favor” will entail. In the past, when a table full of loud, buzzed guys asks me for a favor, it usually involves my phone number.

“Depends.” I rest a hand on my hip. “What’s the favor?”

The shaggy-haired guy who asked me the question elbows the man sitting next to him. When my eyes adjust against the dim mood lighting, I have to blink twice. His seat buddy is the dictionary definition of tall, dark, and handsome. At least, I assume he’s tall. He’s sitting, so I can’t say for sure what his height is, but glancing at his long, trouser-clad legs, I’d guess he’s got at least handful of inches on my five-foot-seven-inch frame. The rest of the description fits him to a tee, though. His dark hair is cropped short on the sides and runs thick at the top. And his skin boasts a healthy medium-tan that shines under the nearby glow of the overhead copper light fixture.

But it’s his stare that’s causing the hiccup in my heartbeat, that hitch in my breath. Those burnt umber eyes are kindness and intrigue rolled in one. The moment my gaze hits the warm hue of his stare, I’m falling into a rich hickory abyss.

It’s a long second before I realize the shaggy-haired guy is talking again.

“— if you’re game.” Shaggy smiles. “What do you think?”

“What?”

Shaggy lets out a chuckle. Tall, dark, and handsome’s gaze falls to his lap. When he looks back up at me, the faintest rosy hue coats his cheeks.

“Weird request, I know, but Wes here lost a bet. Rules are rules. Think you’d be up for slapping him?”

“You’re joking, right?”

Tall, dark, and handsome, aka Wes, shakes his head. “Dead serious.”

I roll my eyes. This is a first. Of all the weird and inappropriate requests I’ve received while serving drinks at my cousin’s bar, I’ve never been asked to physically assault someone. No way I’m starting now.

I play my professionalism card. “Sorry, guys. I’m not in the mood to get fired for assaulting a customer.”

I grab more empties with my free hand and walk back to the bar.

“What if we ask your boss?” someone from the table hollers.

“Sure, whatever,” I call without looking behind me.

I tend to a few more tables, then feel a tap on my shoulder. Remy smirks at me. “I gave that table my blessing. You can slap that guy if you want.”

“Remy, I’m really not in the mood tonight.”

“I told them you’ll do it for fifty bucks, on top of what they owe you for a tip.” Remy peers around me. “If you won’t do it, I will. I’d smack around any of those handsome devils for free, actually.”

I groan. “Fine.” I march back to the table. “Someone order a slap?”

I’m met with soft cheers and fist pumps. This time when I stare at my intended target, something resembling my heart pounds in my chest. I shove away the fleeting giddiness. It’s probably the prospect of touching another human being that’s sending me into a tizzy. It’s been a handful of months since my last date. My last kiss? Months on top of months.

Wes looks up at me, his eyes bright with an undefinable allure I’ve never seen in anyone else. Their deep hue cuts deep. I wonder if it’s possible to freefall into someone’s eyes. I give myself a mental smack against the head. He’s an attractive man. That’s it. Must stop acting like a giddy teenager.

“I’m not going to do this standing up while you’re sitting down,” I say. “It feels weirdly domineering.”

“Fair enough.” He stands up, zero evidence of tension on his gorgeous mug. His display of pure ease is in direct opposition to the Ferris wheel of nerves swirling through me.

At full height standing in front of me, I have to tilt my head back to keep my gaze fixed on him. I’d put him a touch above six feet tall.

“Ready?” I ask.

He nods, his eyes never leaving me. One side of his mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Make it good. We’ve got an audience.”

Judging by how the background chatter has softened to whispers, the entire bar is staring at us.

I raise my hand. This handsome stranger with smoky-brown magnets for eyes, this guy named Wes who I feel inexplicably drawn to, doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he lets his half-smile widen into a proper full one. That flash of pearly white kills me. I’m about to smack this drop-dead gorgeous man in the face.

I swallow. I rest my palm on his left cheek and it’s like my entire hand catches fire. Wes’s body is a special kind of warm. The type of warm that makes me want to curl into him and nuzzle his chest, just to see if every other part of him is as deliciously hot as his face.

He leans his face closer. “Just like that. But harder.”

On the scale of epic slaps, the one I deliver to Wes’s face wouldn’t even register. It’s nothing like those dramatic ones in the movies. The only reason anyone can hear the noise is because the entire bar has fallen to a self-imposed hush. I didn’t have the nerve to pull off anything more than a half-hearted smack. But when my hand falls from his face to my side, the entire bar erupts in cheers and whistles.

The sound barely registers against my eardrums. Instead, all I can focus on is Wes’s face. For a split second when my hand made contact with his cheek, he closed his eyes. His smile dropped. But a beat later, he opens his eyes and flashes another heart-melting grin at me, as if I had kissed him instead of struck him.

Against the backdrop of applause in the bar, Wes bows to our audience. When he gestures toward me, I do the same. With everyone turning back to their own tables and conversations, I pivot toward the bar.

“Hey,” Wes says from behind me.

I turn around to see his outstretched hand in front of him, that killer smile still on display. “Hell of a way to spend Valentine’s Day, right? Thanks for the slap…”

I shake his hand. “Shay,” I say, biting back a grin of my own. “My pleasure.”

When I let go, I head back behind the bar and dump the nearest bottle of hard alcohol in a shot glass, then down it. Patrón. Not the greatest choice, but it’ll have to do. I’ve never been a big drinker, but I need something, anything to ease me. Every nerve in my body is on high alert after engaging in one of the hottest and most random acts I’ve ever attempted in my life—with a stranger, no less.

I grab a towel and begin to wipe dry all the freshly washed glasses. It’s the perfect mindless activity to keep myself in check. Otherwise, I’d sprint back over to Wes and park myself on his lap, my fingers tugging at that perfect mess of dark hair, teasing his tongue with mine. Now that would be unprofessional…and way, way naughtier than that slap.

In my head, the words “hot damn” tumble like a spin-top toy gone rogue.

Holy hot damn is more like. Those moments of eye contact with Wes, the feel of his stubbled cheek under my hand have formed the single hottest moment I’ve ever experienced on Valentine’s Day.

It’s not like I haven’t had romantic gestures in the past. As a late-twenties single, I’ve celebrated with dates and boyfriends a handful of times. I’ve done dinners out, cooked meals in, a couple flower deliveries, even a carriage ride. But they all lacked one thing: heat.

Heat is exactly what’s flashed through me ever since making eye contact with Wes minutes ago. And in those minutes since, my body has been roasting, caught in a slow-burn state from the inside out. I swipe my nearly waist-length hair, which is styled in a messy braid, over one shoulder and fan myself. How in the hell can a guy I don’t even know make me feel hotter with one look than anyone I’ve dated in the past?

I touch a damp dishtowel to my face and nearly gasp. The heat from my skin must be seeping through the thick cotton cloth. I can even feel it on my fingertips.

Remy saunters over, fanning himself with a hand.

“I know,” I mutter before darting away and down the hall to the bathroom.

Cold water to the face is what I need to snap myself out of these premature hot flashes. I push open the door of the single occupancy women’s bathroom just as the person inside of it pulls it open. Losing my balance at the unexpected momentum, I fall forward. Damn it. In my tizzied-up state, I didn’t even check to see if the bathroom was occupied.

I tumble forward, but instead of landing the tile floor face-first like I think I will, strong arms brace me, then haul me to a standing position. My fingers dig into what are some very meaty and nicely hairy forearms. The up-close view of red and black flannel registers in my brain. Wes caught me.

When he steadies me back on my feet, I’m pressed against him, my forearms plastered to his chest like we’re glued together. We’re so close that if I lean my head forward an inch, I’d graze my forehead against the delicious stubble dotting his chin.

He peers down at me. “You okay?”

Once again, I’m wide-eyed and speechless, all because of that killer stare. I hum “yes” through a breath.

“Sorry,” he says. “The men’s bathroom was occupied. I already broke the seal and couldn’t wait. You know how it goes.”

Again I nod, this time my eyes on his lips. So thick and full. I’d give back that fifty-dollar tip for a single bite of that pouty mouth. Clenching my fists, I breathe, somehow keeping my mouth and teeth to myself.

Even through the thick denim of my black skinny jeans, the heat of his touch—his hands on my hips—burns. A hot, delicious burn. Like slowly lowering myself into steamy bathwater.

“Thanks for, um, catching me.” I frown up at him, then am immediately distracted by the way his stubbled Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. It’s another second before I can speak. “I didn’t mean to barge in, I—I forgot to check the door, I usually do, I just…”

One corner of his mouth makes that slow journey upward to form a half-smile. “It’s okay. Seems like a fitting way to end the evening. Your hand on my face a few minutes ago. You in my arms right now.”

The other corner of his mouth curves up, and full-fledged invisible flames consume me. It’s decided. Wes is the champion of sexy smiles. He’s got the half-smile and the grin in the bag. I’d kill to see a smirk and one with a lip bite.

“I like the way your hands feel on me,” he says.

With those words plus his touch and that smile, I’m emboldened. “How about my lips, too?”

When he nods, I press my mouth to his. It’s a slow, tentative contact at first. As hot and bothered as I am after endless months of zero kisses, I don’t want to drown the poor guy with desperate licks and sucking noises. I set the tone at gentle, nibbling his bottom lip. Another light press of my mouth on his. Then I slide my tongue.

Wes seems to appreciate my measured style because his lips stretch against my mouth in a slow smile. We lick and taste and tease until we’re barely able to keep up with the ragged rhythm we’ve set. When he pulls away, we’re both clutching onto the other, gasping for breath.

I rest my forehead against his, staring down at his flannel-clad chest as it heaves up and down. I was mistaken. That slap was just an appetizer. This crazy random, crazy hot kiss in the open doorway of this bar bathroom is what slingshots this Valentine’s Day into unforgettable territory. I will never, ever forget this evening when I delivered my first sexy slap, followed by the hottest first kiss I’ve ever experienced in my life.

“Mmm, Shay…” Wes’s gravelly rumble sends electric shocks to my knees. I can barely stand, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still got me by the waist, propping me up. “Do you—”

“Wes! Where you at, man?”