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This is not a hello-happy-to-see-you kiss. We sailed out of platonic territory about five seconds ago. With the right amount of pressure and the perfect angle, this kiss is the kind you dream of. It’s an ‘I missed you and I want you’ all rolled into one. He smells so familiar. Feels so familiar.
Just like all those years ago. . .
I push, and he lets me go.
Eyes wide, I suck in a breath as I stumble back, and the rest of the world comes crashing into focus. The fire. Alex, now standing and so watchful, and Gabe, brooding. Ford. Sutton. The lake glistening in the moonlight. The soft sounds of the evening.
My worlds are colliding.
Panic creeps up my skin, traveling along my shoulders. This cannot be happening.
The five men look as confused as I feel.
I dart across the lawn and up wide steps to the back porch, then through the door to the kitchen. Marissa looks up, startled by my sudden appearance, so I apologize and scurry through to the den, needing a moment alone.
What in the world?
I trace my lips with my fingertips.
Seriously. What in the world is going on?
Did I suddenly start producing kiss-me pheromones?
Is there a sign taped to my back?
Do they have some kind of bet? Okay, that one’s so crazy even I don’t believe it. But still. I have questions.
Why now?
“Katherine?” Kingston’s voice echoes through the house.
I close my eyes, wishing I could hide. I just need to figure this out. Whatever this is. This thing with Alex is so new and then there’s Gabe, which I did not see coming.
And now there’s Kingston. The boy from my past. My best friend. The man who has cheered me up numerous times, made me laugh, kept me sane, and sent me cereal from around the world because he knows it makes me happy.
He makes an effort to tell me about all the plants he comes across. And every time he sees my name, be it on a street sign or a menu, he snaps a pic and texts it so I know he’s thinking of me.
“Kat. . .” His footsteps pause on the wood floor behind me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
He leaves the sentence hanging. Open-ended and unsatisfying.
He shouldn’t have what? Kissed me in front of an audience? Broken my heart six years ago?
I whirl to face him, my temper rising. “No. You shouldn’t have.” My answer is no more specific than his, and my heart freaking aches for all the years wasted. And how good he looks.
This is a moment straight from my fantasies. My best friend finally comes to his senses and shows up on my doorstep, sweeping me into his arms and declaring he can’t be apart from me again.
But this isn’t a romance novel, and Kingston isn’t the hero. Is he?
“Wildfire. . .” He steps closer, and I try not to crumble under the new nickname. Six years. He had six years.
I hold up a hand. It shakes.
“Don’t. Whatever it is you think is going to happen, just don’t.” God. I need a minute. I need air. And I will not have another freaking panic attack.
His jaw drops, and he pauses mid-step. “What do you mean?”
My heart is getting a workout this week. Right now, it aches, and it really doesn’t like the direction of my thoughts.
