Page 52 of For the Record
“You’re drooling, honey.” I smiled at her, incredibly grateful I wasn’t the only one caught up in this.
“The pasta…” She trailed off like she was in a daze. “It looks really good.”
My head tilted down to the pasta as I laughed, a deep rumble settling in my chest and spreading out. Both of my fingers gripped the end of the counter, and I sniffed, scrunching my nose up.
She smiled up at me, her dissociated gaze now focused entirely on me. “You laughed.”
“I laugh.” I shrugged before reaching for my water bottle so I could have something to do with my hands.
“I think I could count on one hand the number of times you have actually laughed around me.”
“I laugh. It’s usually at you when you’re gone so that I don’t hurt your feelings.”
She snorted a gasp and reached down to the extra flour dusted on my counters before flicking it my way, white powder exploding on my black shirt.
Her snort turned into fits of laughter as she backed up with two hands facing me in defense. “I didn’t. I—” she gasped, “Don’t even think about it.”
It was too late. My hands were digging through the leftover flour and reaching for her. Before she could get out of my vicinity, I reached a hand out to grab her shirt—my shirt—and tugged her into me, my hands gripping her shoulders, her waist. Fingers digging into her ribs and twisting in a way that made her laugh every time. Her cackle filled my kitchen and resonated in my chest, bouncing off the walls and settling inside me. The white powder covered her shirt, some sprinkled across her cheeks and dusted in her hair.
I snorted. How this woman managed to look impossibly beautiful in every scenario was infuriating. She followed my gaze and looked down at her covered shirt before dragging a slow pull of her finger down the valley of her chest, collecting enough flour on her finger to reach up and plant it on my nose.
My chest shook as I laughed, digging my hands into the bag of flour beside us and flicking it at her face, a whirlwind of white brushing across us both.
Her laughter poured out into my kitchen, this bright light bouncing off the walls and beaming into my chest, squeezing it tight. My smile grew wider, the tips of our noses only inches apart. The scent of flour and her perfume waved over me. Her long eyelashes fluttered at me, and my heart beat against my chest.
She’s so pretty. Pretty like the sun setting when you’re out on the ocean. Pretty like the sight of my driveway after a long work trip. She was like this compass, constantly pointing me toward her. Never wavering, never faulty, always to her. Every piece of her felt like home.
My eyes trailed to her lips, pink and plush and so incredibly soft against mine in the few instances where I’d had the privilege to kiss her. I didn’t remember every detail of the night in Vegas, but I remembered her lips. Her kisses, her smiles, her laugh that resonated in my head like a never-ending birdsong. Music might be her muse, but she was mine.
“You look good in white.”
Rachel smiled up at me with this surprised smile. “Is that why you married me that night? Just to see me in white?”
I shook my head. If only she knew. “No, honey. That wasn’t why.”
Her smile slowly flattened, eyes shifting between mine as if she could find a more solid answer there. I didn’t have one. Not that I could voice anyway. I would one day. I …had to sort things out first. Find a way to explain.
She lifted a shaky hesitant hand to my neck, her nails lightly dragging against the base. Warmth flooded me, my neck no doubt turning a deep red under her touch.
“Are you thinking about kissing me?” she whispered.
The question took me right back to the last time I kissed her. At that wedding. The wedding where she wore the dress I wanted to burn if I could get it off her. The wedding where, all night, she gave me this dreamy, far-off look that said everything she was thinking and how her thoughts matched mine exactly.
I flexed my jaw and nodded slowly. She was already leaning farther toward me with her chin tilted my way. “Among other things.”
She smirked back at me in remembrance, and it only made my lips pull up more.
Friends. That was what we were supposed to be. But friends didn’t kiss each other the way we did. Friends didn’t stay up late at night fabricating scenarios about each other that ended with her in my arms every time. They certainly didn’t marry in Vegas on a whim, much less feel the way I did for her.
Nothing about the heat surging through my body as her lips pressed against mine felt friendly. It was light, so incredibly light, that if I weren’t hyperaware of her body, then I would have assumed it was nothing more than a peck. But she melted under me, my hands on her lower back as she rested fully against me. Her shoulders dropped, her jaw loosened, and she relaxed entirely in my hands.
I kissed her back, pursing my lips against hers as we slid into this perfect rhythm of pushing and pulling.
Music. We were making music together.
“Is this,” she said against me, “a good idea?”
I nodded, our noses rubbing against one another. “It’s the best idea.”