I'm almost not aware that I'm tilting my head up, as if I'm seeking his mouth. His hands meet my face, and cup my jaw.
"I want to kiss you," he says hoarsely. "It doesn't make any sense, because we just met?—"
I press into him, interrupting because I absolutely need to feel his lips on mine. I don't know what has come over me and I don't care. Maybe it's that lack of human contact. Whatever it is, I want this.
Today's my day to make a stupid decision, to throw caution to the wind, to take what I want. Yeah, I've made many stupid decisions in the past, and it looks like I'm making another one.
"Who cares if it doesn't make sense?" I whisper.
FOUR
Remy
Leilani Kostas is breathtaking.
Not simply because her lips are soft and she's giving me the most genuinely surprising kiss I've ever had in my twenty-nine years. Not because she went up on her toes and pressed into me like she'd been waiting all morning for the chance. Not because the deck is small and the springs are shimmering in a weird way and the cypress trees overhead are leaning in like they want to listen.
It's the entire package. The way she fits against me even though she's quite a bit shorter. The way her hair smells like fresh water and coconut. The way she's here — present, awake, unguarded — in a way most women I've kissed haven't been.
I have kissed, for the record, a number of women. I’ve been the Playboy of Paradise Springs for the bulk of my adult life, even if the title has been more reputation than reality. I’m familiar with what a first kiss feels like.
This is not a typical first kiss.
This is… I don't even know what to call it. The kind of kiss that, when it ends, you have to immediately recalibrate the rest of your week around figuring out how to do it again.
She breaks the kiss first, pulling back maybe an inch. Her eyes are still closed.
"Oh," she says.
"Yeah," I agree.
She opens her eyes and looks at me with what I can only describe as alarmed desire. "I don't do this."
"Kiss strangers on tiki bar decks?"
"No. Any of it." She steps back, smoothing her hair with the heel of her hand. "I’m not looking for a guy."
"For what it's worth," I say, "I don't do this either. At least not lately. I've been in what one might call a quiet stretch."
She gives me a look like she doesn't quite believe me, which is fair. But the truth is I haven't been with anyone in more than six months, and I haven’t even minded. Part of me knew I was waiting for something —someone — to surprise me.
And here she is.
She fans herself with her hand. "It is very hot out here all of a sudden."
"Mmmhmm."
"Like. Very hot."
"It's Florida."
"I think it’s the cypress trees, Remy. They're holding the heat in."
I grin. "Sure, blame the trees."
She laughs, that real, full-bodied laugh she did when I fell off the platform, and I have to physically restrain myself from leaning in to kiss her again.
People in this town say there's something about the springs that affects emotions. Something about the water that makes you accept the truth. The water lowers your walls, supposedly. I usually call that nonsense, a local legend I tell tourists. Today I'm not so sure.