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They’re just fingers, Tate. Don’t let them affect you like this.
He continues walking until he reaches a wooden trifold screen,
decorated with Asian writing on the outside. It’s the kind of screen
people place in the corners of bedrooms. I never understood them. My
mother has one, and I doubt she’s ever once stepped behind it to change
clothes.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He turns and faces me, still holding on to my hand. He grins and
steps behind the screen, pulling me with him so we’re both shielded

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from the rest of the store. I can’t help but laugh, because it feels like
we’re in high school, hiding from the teacher.
His finger meets my lips. “Shh,” he whispers, smiling down at me
while he stares at my mouth.
I immediately stop laughing but not because I don’t find this amusing
anymore. I stop laughing because as soon as his finger is pressed against
my lips, I forget how to laugh.
I forget everything.
Right now, the only thing I can focus on is his finger as it slides softly
down my mouth and chin. His eyes follow the tip of his finger as it
keeps moving, trailing gently down my throat, all the way to my chest,
down, down, down to my stomach.
That one finger feels as if it’s touching me with the sensation of a
thousand hands. My lungs and their inability to keep up are signs of
that.
His eyes are still focused on his finger as it comes to a pause at the
top of my jeans, right above the button. His finger isn’t even making
contact with my skin, but you wouldn’t know that based on the rapid
response of my pulse. His entire hand comes into play now as he lightly
traces my stomach over the top of my shirt until his hand meets my
waist. Both of his hands grip my hips and pull me forward, securing me
against him.
His eyes close briefly, and when he opens them again, he’s no longer
looking down. He’s looking straight at me.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you walked through my front
door today,” he says.
His confession makes me smile. “You have incredible patience.”
His right hand leaves my hip, and he brings it up to the side of my
head, touching my hair as softly as possible. He begins to shake his head

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in slow disagreement. “If I had incredible patience, you wouldn’t be
with me right now.”
I latch on to that sentence and immediately try to figure out the
meaning behind it, but the second his lips touch mine, I’m no longer
interested in the words that left his mouth. I’m only interested in his
mouth and how it feels when it invades mine.
His kiss is slow and calm—the complete opposite of my pulse. His
right hand moves to the back of my head, and his left hand slips around
to my lower back. He explores my mouth patiently, as if he plans on
keeping me behind this partition for the rest of the day.
I’m summoning every last bit of willpower I can find in order to keep
myself from wrapping my arms and legs around him. I’m trying to find
the patience he somehow shows, but it’s hard when his fingers and
hands and lips can pull these kinds of physical reactions out of me.
The door to the back room opens, and the click of the saleswoman’s
heels can be heard against the floor. He stops kissing me, and my heart
cries out. Luckily, the cry can only be felt, not heard.
Rather than pulling away to walk back to the counter, he brings both
his hands to my face and holds me still while he looks at me in silence
for several seconds. His thumbs brush lightly across my jaw, and he
releases a soft breath. His brows furrow, and his eyes close. He presses
his forehead to mine, still holding on to my face, and I can feel his
internal struggle.
“Tate.”
He says my name so quietly I can feel his regret in the words he
hasn’t even spoken yet. “I like . . .” He opens his eyes and looks at me. “I
like kissing you, Tate.”
I don’t know why that sentence seemed hard for him to say, but his
voice trailed off toward the end as though he was attempting to stop

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himself from finishing his words.
As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, he releases me and quickly
steps around the partition as if he’s trying to escape from his own
confession.