He tilts his head, the tuft of blond hair capturing the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. He quirks that wide mouth. Jared can say more with the corner of his mouth than most people do with a hundred words. Turned down, canted up, twisted. Humor, disdain, skepticism. Those lips say it all without uttering a sound, but I have no idea what they are saying now.
“I said convince me you’re a good kisser,” he speaks slowly, like I might have a processing disorder, which could be the case because . . . huh?
Dark blond brows elevate over a simmering stare while he waits.
“And how would I convince you?” I ask, my words coming out on thin air. The longer he looks at me like this, like I’m a meal and he hasn’t eaten, the breathier I sound.
He steps forward, eliminating the sanity-giving space between us. He’s so close I have to tip my head back to keep our eyes connected.
“You could kiss me,” he offers, so close now his breath feathers over my skin. Steamy, yet minty. So close the rumble of his deep voice reverberates in my own chest.
“You mean kiss you?” I ask. “Or like kiss you kiss you?”
He chuckles and lifts the hair off my shoulder, tucking a chunk of it behind my ear.
“I’m pretty sure the second one,” he says, piercing me with another heated glance. “Is that the one with tongue?”
My brain, temporarily atrophied though usually agile, reaches for the nearest excuse.
“I-I don’t kiss guys who have girlfriends.” I arrange my face into polite apology and hope to end this perplexing conversation.
“Ahhh.” He nods, his expression reflective. “I figured you’d say that.”
“Yeah, so, we should probably—”
“That’s why I don’t have a girlfriend anymore.”
The breath stalls in my throat. My heart pummels me from the inside out, rattling against the cage of my ribs.
“You mean Cindy?” I ask.
“Yeah, no more Cindy.”
“You wha-wha . . . huh?”
“You wha-wha . . .” he mocks me, his full lips spreading into a blinding grin. “You heard me. I don’t have a girlfriend anymore. Cindy and I broke up.”