I stand up, wanting to leave these fears behind in bed. I stumble into my bathroom and pull on the cord to turn the light on. I squint in reaction to the light, and I fumble my way to the shower, turning on the water, as it takes the equivalent of ten years to heat up. I move back to the mirror over the sink and stare at my reflection. Gah, a dead cod would look better than I do at this moment.
My eyes are bloodshot, as if I went on a bender at the pub last night. Ugh, and they are so puffy. My long, dark-brown hair is all over the place, and my skin looks dull. Ha, well, Xander might take one look at me tonight and decide icing biscuits is the only thing he’s interested in.
Actually, I can pretty much bank on that result unless my facial scrub is wonderment in a jar and some cucumber slices can take out this puffiness that makes my brown eyes only visible through slits.
Thank God, I’m going over after dinner. I will be able to come home from the bakery, take another shower, and try to look presentable.
And try not to worry that I’ll kiss him incorrectly if he tries to kiss me tonight.
Kiss him.
I strip off my pyjamas and step into the steamy mist of the shower. I wasn’t worried about kissing him last night when we almost did. But now? After reliving my brief and sad intimate history with men, I’m wondering if even my kissing is up to scratch with what a man like Xander would expect.
Or enjoy.
Ugh, I want to beat my head against the shower tiles. I let the water run over me, hating all these doubts that have suddenly crept in. I need to wash them away, just like I want to leave the thoughts of my crap sexual history in the bed. I grab the bottle of shampoo, squeeze some into my palm, and then begin vigorously lathering my hair. I’m scrubbing them out now. This is the last time I’m going to worry. I review the mental odds of anything lasting with Xander anyway. Not favourable. So, I’ll take each moment as it comes.
Tonight, I’m teaching him to ice biscuits. If he kisses me, I’ll kiss him back. Who knows, I might think he’s a bad kisser and never want to see him again.
I laugh out loud.
Somehow, that idea seems doubtful.
I bet Xander’s not merely a good kisser, but a bloody amazing one.
As terrifying as the idea is on so many levels, it’s also exciting and leaves me breathless on others.
My confidence returns. This isn’t a one-way street, no matter how much experience he has—or how little I have. There has to be chemistry between both of us when we kiss for this—whatever this is—to go further.
I rinse out my hair, tilting my head back and letting the water cascade through it, washing the suds away. Along with the shampoo, I wash away all my negative thoughts. I take all my previous fears and send them down the drain, letting them disappear, and replace them with a new thought.
I want Xander to kiss me tonight.
“I’m going to kiss you back if you do kiss me, Xander Wales,” I say out loud.
The tingling returns to my body, followed by a shiver of excitement.
And now, I only hope with all my heart I do get that first kiss by the end of the night.
Chapter Nine
Royal Icing
I drift down the stairs into the living room as if I’m on cloud nine.
Actually, I think I might be. I can’t stop the smile that is spreading across my face. Somehow, I made it through the workday, with thoughts of Xander appearing, oh, about every ten seconds or so. But I finished my day, raced home, and after making a quick meal for Isla and me, spent the next hour getting ready for my date with Xander.
I showered. I shaved my sugar-scrubbed legs and moisturised. Instead of piling my thick hair into a bun, I took my time and blow dried it with a round brush. Then I curled it with a large-barrel curling wand to make loose waves. I pulled out all of my best makeup and applied it carefully, ending with the perfect blush-nude pout thanks to my new lipstick purchase. I flicked through everything in my wardrobe three times, wishing I had date-type clothes, but finally settled on an A-line