Just One Kiss novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Data

To learn what a good kiss feels like, Lottie kisses Ansel once in his truck, and his hands shake.

We closed the marina at nine, and neither of us said a word about last winter.

I wanted to ask who she was.

I wanted to ask why he'd never mentioned her.

Instead I locked the bait cooler three times and then checked it a fourth.

"You're doing the thing," Ansel said from the door.

"I'm not doing a thing."

"You're checking a lock until it's afraid of you."

I turned off the light.

Gail had gone up to her apartment above the office, so we had the lot to ourselves.

"Drive me up the quarry road," I said.

He looked at me.

"Why?"

"Because I have a problem, and it needs a dark place and a quiet truck."

He didn't argue.

That's the thing about Ansel.

He asks one question, and then he drives.

The quarry road climbs a hill outside Port Clement and ends at a gravel turnout that looks over the whole lake.

At night the water goes black, and the lights of the freighters hang out on it.

He parked and cut the engine.

The truck ticked as it cooled.

I took the receipt out of my pocket and smoothed it on my knee.

"Here's my problem," I said. "I've been kissed twice in my life. Both times at a party. Both times wet."

"That's two data points."

"They're bad data points. I don't know what a good one feels like."

"So?"

"So if I let Colt Rydell kiss me tomorrow and it's awful, how do I know if it's him or me?"

Ansel stared at the windshield.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"You want a control," he said.

"I want a baseline."

"From who?"

"From somebody I'm not scared of," I said. "From somebody who's done it, and won't make it weird."

The quiet in the truck got very big.

"You're asking me," he said.

"I'm not asking. I'm telling you what I need."

"One kiss," I said. "That's it. We write it down and we never mention it again."

"Lottie."

"You said you've done this. You know how."

"I know how to," he said, very low. "That's different from."

"Different from what?"

He didn't answer.

His hands were on the wheel at ten and two, and the knuckles had gone pale.

I thought, he doesn't want to.

I thought, I've made him say yes out of kindness, like a dentist.

Then he let go of the wheel.

"One," he said.

My heart was going.

I turned in the seat and put my knee on the bench between us.

I'd never been this close to his face on purpose.

He smells like cut grass, engine grease, and the lake.

His eyes in the dark were almost black.

"Okay," I said, to myself, not to him.

I put one hand on his jaw.

His stubble scraped my palm.

Then I kissed him.

I meant for it to be small.

I meant it as research.

His mouth was warm and soft, and for one second he didn't move at all.

Then his breath came out against my lips, a ragged little sound, and everything about the kiss changed.

His hand came up and slid into my hair.

His other hand found my waist, over my apron strings, and pulled me an inch closer.

He tilted his head, and his mouth opened under mine, slow and sure.

Heat ran straight down my spine and settled low in my stomach.

It was nothing like a party.

It was nothing like wet.

It was the first time in my life that a kiss had made me forget I was supposed to be keeping score.

I heard a small noise, and realized it was me.

His thumb pressed into the dip of my waist.

I kissed him harder.

He made a sound in his throat that I felt in my teeth.

My fingers curled in his shirt, and I pulled, and he came with me, and the steering wheel pressed into my hip, and I did not care.

I don't know how long it lasted.

Long enough to learn that I'd been wrong about everything.

Long enough to want a lot more than one.

When I pulled back, I was breathing.

His forehead was against mine.

His eyes were closed.

"That's one," he said. His voice was wrecked.

"Yeah," I said. "That's one."

"Is that enough data?"

"It's a lot of data."

I sat back on my heels and pushed my hair behind my ear.

My plum hair was a mess.

I looked at his hands, so I wouldn't have to look at his mouth.

They were gripping his thighs.

They were shaking.

Ansel Okerlund, who once pulled a hook out of his own hand without a sound, was shaking.

"Ansel."

"I'm fine."

"Your hands."

"I'm fine." He started the truck and put it in reverse so fast that gravel hit the fender. "Lottie. Whatever you decide about the list, you don't ever ask me for a second one."

"Why not?"

He kept his eyes on the road.

"Because I wouldn't be able to say no," he said.

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