She looked past him, at the rain, at the empty house, at the closed door of the room where they’d first been told to “try and get along.” Then she looked back at him, at the boy who had become her secret gravity.
His use of her nickname, the one only he used, undid something in her chest. “This is a bad idea,” she breathed.
The rain was a constant, gray sheet against the windows of the lake house, trapping them inside a world that felt suddenly, dangerously small. Nicole had claimed the window seat in the living room, a heavy book open on her lap that she hadn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes. Across the room, Zurich was methodically cleaning his vintage camera lenses, the soft click and twist of metal the only sound besides the rain. SexMex 24 10 11 Nicole Zurich Step-Siblings Mee...
That was all the permission he needed. When he kissed her, it wasn’t the gentle, tentative first kiss of a new couple. It was the collision of three years of unspoken words, of side-long glances and accidental touches that lingered a second too long. It was hungry and desperate and achingly tender all at once. His hands cupped her face, and her fingers fisted in the soft cotton of his henley, pulling him closer as the rain hammered against the glass, a deafening applause for a story that was only just beginning.
“Now,” she said, pulling him back down to her, “we stop pretending.” She looked past him, at the rain, at
At first, it had been stiff and polite. Nicole, an artist, saw Zurich as a jock—all lacrosse and easy, cocky smiles. Zurich saw Nicole as a moody, unattainable ice queen. But over the months, the stiffness had melted into a sharp, wired tension. They’d become experts at not-touching: handing the salt shaker without brushing fingers, sitting on opposite ends of the couch with a pillow barrier that felt more symbolic than effective.
“Yes, you do.” He stood up, the careful distance between them collapsing as he crossed the room in three easy strides. He didn’t sit beside her. Instead, he knelt in front of the window seat, his knees on the floor, so they were eye to eye. “You look at me like you’re afraid of me. And I don’t think it’s fear, Nic.” The rain was a constant, gray sheet against
“So why are you closer than you were ten seconds ago?”
“Liar.” He set down the lens and the cloth. “You’re thinking about what your mom would say if she saw the way you looked at me at dinner last night.”
She should. Every rational part of her brain screamed it. But rationality had left the building the moment he’d knelt before her like she was something sacred.