Now That I've Found You - Kristina Forest Page 0,55
But I’m no match for Milo and his long legs. Especially not while wearing these platform boots. The only reason I’m moving so quickly is that he’s basically pulling me down Forty-Sixth Street.
We make a sharp right onto Seventh Avenue, and I’ve never been so thankful for Times Square tourists to help us blend in. Most paparazzi gave up after a block or two, but there are a few persistent ones who are still running after us.
I tighten my grip on Milo’s hand as he quickly pushes his way through the crowd.
“Evie!” I hear a photographer shout. “Just one picture!”
Seriously, are they so desperate that they’d brave tourist central? I have to do something, and fast.
I spot a diner called The Red Flame to my right, and I call Milo’s name, urging him along toward the diner. We’re panting as we rush inside, and the hostess backs away, holding up her hands in surprise. I spin around and glimpse one of the photographers who’s still searching for us in the crowd. Thinking quickly, I start pulling Milo’s jacket off his arms so that they won’t recognize him, and so that he’s blocking me.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I continue tugging on his sleeves. I take his jacket and throw it over my shoulders. Behind him, a photographer is right in front of the door, looking in the opposite direction. When he starts to turn his head toward us, I pull Milo down so that his face is right in front of mine.
And I swear it wasn’t supposed to be a real kiss. We were just supposed to pretend to kiss so that the photographer wouldn’t see our faces and move on.
But it’s like our mouths have ideas of their own, because once Milo’s face is level with mine, our lips come together like magnets. I wait a fraction of a second, giving him a chance to pull away if he wants to. But he doesn’t. He pulls me closer and deepens the kiss, wrapping his arms around my waist.
I’ve been kissed before, during performances and in real life. But I’ve never been kissed like this. So slowly and deeply, as if it’s the only thing that matters. His lips are soft, and his mouth tastes like spearmint. I reach up, placing my hands on his firm shoulders. His skin is warm, radiating through his shirt.
Our kiss feels like it lasts a century, when, in reality, only a few minutes pass. I finally pull away, lifting my fingers to my swollen mouth. Milo blinks at me, looking completely dazed. I glance behind him. No more paparazzi. The kiss worked. In more ways than one, if I’m being honest.
“They’re gone,” I say breathlessly. Calmly. But on the inside, I’m thinking, Oh my God. We just kissed. We just kissed!
“We just kissed,” Milo says, like he can’t believe it. “You just kissed me.”
“It—it was for the paparazzi,” I stammer. “I didn’t want them to see our faces.”
“You just kissed me,” he repeats, smiling this time. He has nice teeth. Nice lips. Nice everything.
Ugh! What have I done?
I shake my head. “It wasn’t even real! It was just for the paparazzi!”
“Was it, though?” he says, shaking his head too. “I think you kissed me because you wanted to.”
“No! Well … no. No.” I’m a broken record.
“Um, excuse me, do you guys want a table, or what?” The hostess is staring at us impatiently. “I know we’re open twenty-four hours, but that doesn’t mean you get to stand by the door all night.”
She raises an eyebrow. I imagine how we must look to her: a sweaty, winded couple who just ran through Times Square, holding hands, making out as soon as we got through the door. She probably thinks we’re tourists who are madly in love or something.
“Table for two, please,” Milo says. When I look at him, he adds, “What? We’re here. We might as well eat.”
I don’t agree with that logic, but I do think it’s best to hide out and lie low until we can trust that all the paparazzi have left the area.
“Um, can we sit in the back, please?” I ask. “Like, as far from the door as possible?”
The hostess frowns, clearly done with us. “Um, okay. Sure.”
She seats us at a booth in the back, right near the loud kitchen, where we can hear the cooks and servers bustling on the other side of the swinging door.