The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,133

him in a way that I was determined not to. Besides, he’s leaving in a few days. There’s no point in ruining the rest of our time together by making this situation unnecessarily complicated.

“Try me,” he says, his stare boring into me. Something tells me he’s not going to let this go.

Giving myself a moment, I gather my thoughts and nibble on my lower lip. “I was just thinking about connections.”

“Connections?” His hands rest on his hips, his shoulders parallel with mine. I have his full, undivided attention.

“I was just thinking about how I hardly know you, but I feel connected to you,” I say, cringing on the inside but fully embracing the discomfiture of this conversation.

He says nothing, which doesn’t make this moment any less awkward for the both of us.

“You asked!” I remind him, throwing my hands up.

Another moment passes, the two of us lingering next to some hairy elephant-looking creature with a long-as-hell scientific name as a group of children runs past us.

“Now I want to know what you’re thinking about.” I nudge his arm. “It’s only fair.”

He smirks, then it fades, and he gazes into the distance. It’s like there’s something on the tip of his tongue, but if I push or prod too much, he’ll never share it.

“Nothing, Maritza. I was thinking about nothing.”

I don’t buy it, but I don’t press any further. I want to burn this awkward moment into a pile of ash and move on.

“Are you going to remember me after this week?” I ask after a bout of silence.

His golden irises glint as his eyes narrow in my direction. “What kind of question is that?”

“A legit one,” I say. “Will you remember me? Or am I always just going to be that waitress girl that you hung out with for a week?”

“Don’t think I could forget you if I tried.” He speaks in such a way that I’m not sure if what he’s saying is a good thing or a bad thing. “Can I be honest right now?”

“You must. It’s a requirement.”

Isaiah’s tongue grazes his full lips for a quick second and he holds my gaze for what feels like forever. “I don’t want to make this any more confusing for either of us, but I feel like kissing you right now.”

I fight a smile. I don’t want to smile. I want to scoff at him and tell him to stop being such a hypocrite.

But that’s only half of me.

The other half of me wants him to kiss me, wants his hands in my hair and his taste on my tongue just one more time because we’ll never have this moment again and once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.

“I’ll allow it,” I say, half-teasing. “But only because we’re standing in front of a fiberglass mastodon and it doesn’t get any less romantic than that.”

Isaiah glances around to ensure we’re not in the presence of impressionable minds, and then he sinks his mouth onto mine, taking his time like he’d been waiting patiently all day and doesn’t want to ruin it by rushing.

I’m light as air and grounded at the same time. Nothing else exists outside his warm, soft mouth and his steady hands. I can’t even comprehend my own thoughts because my heart is pounding so hard in my chest it’s the only thing I hear.

When it’s over, reality is back in the driver’s seat. Rubbing my lips together, savoring the sweet burn of what lingers, I tell myself it’s just a kiss.

As long as there are no flowers exchanged these next couple of days, no sweet words or careless whispers, no promises made and no looking at each other like we hung the moon … we should be fine and both of us should be able to walk away from this completely unscathed, not a single battle wound or commemorative scar.

“How’s that ankle holding up?” he asks, glancing down toward my foot. “Still looks a little swollen. Hope we didn’t make it worse today.”

“I took, like, ten Advil this morning so I can’t feel a thing.”

Except that kiss.

I felt the hell out of that kiss.

He smirks, half-chuckling. “You hungry? You want to go somewhere?”

He’s not ready for our “Saturday” to end just yet.

And truth be told, neither am I.

Ten

Isaiah

* * *

Saturday #6

* * *

I miss a lot of things when I’m overseas, but most of the time I try not to think about them. Out of sight, out of mind is a way of survival when you’re thousands of miles