Page 16 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

I know I should be watching the fireflies. I know I should be paying attention to all the details that make this moment so magical—the crickets and cicadas serenading us, the low babble of nearby Ridgeline Creek winding around town like a whisper.

But I can’t take my eyes off her.

“I hoped you’d like it.”

“I love it.” Her breathing is shallow, like she’s so captivated, she can’t keep it in. “It’s perfect. Let’s get married here.”

She sounds so sincere. She looks so enchanted. So enchanting. “I will if you will.”

Her head rests on my shoulder, and then she stays there and sighs, looking at the diamond and the faded chalk lines and worn bases, the wildflowers pushing up through the fence, and the fireflies blinking a slow song only we can hear.

“So, should we talk about living arrangements?” I ask, because I want to prolong the moment as long as I can. “It has to be in Mullet Ridge.”

“How about your place?” she asks.

I almost laugh at the thought of Kayla Carville living in my place. “It’s a one bedroom, one bath apartment. Probably smaller than your bedroom in your old place.”

“It sounds perfect,” she says, her head still on my shoulder.

“Kayla—“

“Unless you don’t want me in your space,” she says, pulling back to look at me with concern on her brow.

“I promise that’s not it,” I say with a chuckle. “You can stay as long as you want.”

She smiles. “In that case, we should get some pictures. You know, for social media. The town council.”

I swallow, but nod. “You’re right.”

She pulls out her phone and flips it to selfie mode.

She holds up her left hand and drops her mouth open, making sure we’re both in the picture.

But I’m not just going to stand here like some bozo.

I press my torso against her back and drape my arms around her, holding her close and grinning.

She snaps a few pictures, and then she spins around in my arms so she’s facing me, our chests pressed together.

She holds the phone out again, and we both smile.

And then she pauses. I can see the wheels spinning in her brain as she blinks in the mirror image the phone screen shows.

“We should probably have a … kissing picture, right?”

My word.

Is this woman trying to kill me?

“You’re probably right,” I say. “And we need to decide how we’ll manage those little public displays of affection people expect.”

“I was never a fan of PDA with Aldridge,” she says.

“That might be tricky, ‘cause I’m the opposite.”

“You were a fan of PDA with Aldridge?”

My shoulders shake with laughter. Man, this girl is funny. “I was always big on PDA with Serena, I mean. The town knows that about me. But I’ll follow your lead. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Her brow wrinkles, and suddenly, I’m reminded of how it always felt to be so affectionate with Serena just to have her turn around and flirt with other men.

The pain, the embarrassment of not being enough for her, the shame that even when I was trying my best, she had no real interest in me.

It always felt like a part of me was wrong.

Like I was a participation trophy when she was going for gold.

“You know, maybe we should stop bringing up our exes,” she says.

“I love that idea,” I say. But something about the way she said it makes me wonder—is she upset thinking about me with Serena?

Or do I just hope she is?

“So where does that leave us?” I ask. “With the PDA-debate?”

“Right.” She frowns and puts her finger through the loop on her phone case so that it dangles. “Maybe we should practice. See what we’re both comfortable with.”

“Yes,” I blurt.

She smiles as she puts her arms back around my shoulders. A beat later, I put mine around her back.

Man, I like the feel of her. I like how well she fits, like I don’t have to lower myself to accommodate her. And her smell …

It’s like milk and honey, the kind of comfort food that’s both wholesome, yet something you crave, too. Something you can never get enough of.

“I’m comfortable with this,” she says. “You?”

“No objections.”

Next, she puts her hands in my hair. And tugs. It sends a wave of sensation from my scalp down my neck, through my spine, and down my legs. “This?”

“Uh huh,” I say stupidly.

She brings one hand from the back of my hair across my neck, stopping to play with my earlobe in a way that makes my head lean down without my say-so.

And then she moves her hand to my cheek. And

“I love how your beard smells,” she admits, closing her eyes and breathing in while she puts her fingers softly in my beard, running them over the dense whiskers gently. “It’s so woodsy. Like an old bourbon-soaked oak barrel.”

“It’s my beard balm,” I say, fighting to keep my eyes open as she strokes my beard.

Shoot.

I didn’t know how much I liked someone touching my beard. My mom used to play with my face when I was little and couldn’t sleep, and Serena rarely touched it, and never in a way that felt so … good.

“Too much?” she asks, removing her hand.

“Not at all.”

“Is touch your love language?” she asks suspiciously. "You’re comfortable with everything.”

Maybe it’s the vulnerability that comes with having someone touch me the way Kayla is touching me, but when I open my mouth, I speak before I think.

“I can’t see myself being with you and being able to keep my hands off you in public.

So tell me what you’re comfortable with, and I’ll make sure I don’t cross that line. ”

She smiles, biting her lip again. “I trust you not to cross it. But does that mean you plan to get right up to the line, Captain?”

“Boss, any man lucky enough to be given a line by you—he’d do well to move there.”

She laughs. “Maybe we should make a list. Holding hands is an obvious must,” she says.

“And hugging,” I say, maybe a little too eagerly. “Arms around each other. That kind of thing.”

“Agreed. But no butt-touching.”

I cough in surprise. “Take it easy, there. I ain’t looking to get kicked out of church.”

She laughs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.” She pauses. “And kissing?”

“What about it?” I ask, feeling my heart rev like her Mercedes at a green light.

“How about one kiss per outing,” she says. Her voice is soft. Almost breathless.

“One? Hmm. Are we talking lips or cheeks?”

“Lips.”

“Cheeks are fair game?”

“If the moment calls for it.”

“In my experience, that moment calls a lot,” I say.

If she knows what I’m doing, she’s not fighting me. Her eyes are narrowed, her lips quirked into that half-smile that makes me crave the rest of it like I’ve been starving for days. “Let’s say twice an outing for cheeks.”

“So one kiss on the lips per outing but two on the cheek? What constitutes an outing? Does a change of venue reset the outing?”

“What constitutes a venue?” she shoots back.

“One location.”

She purses her lips. “Is the stadium the same as my office?”

“No.”

“So a change of setting? What if we’re walking from the parking lot to the office and then down to the stadium?”

I grimace with a slow, exaggerated intake of breath. “Sorry, Boss. That sounds like three different settings to me.”

She laughs. “I didn’t realize you were going to be such a tough negotiator.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s too alluring for her own good.”

“Oh, right,” she teases. “This mind with this body? Who could resist.”

“Exactly. You should have to register that combination with the state. It’s lethal.”

She rolls her eyes, but her arms are still around me, and mine are around her, and the longer this goes on, the less I want to stop.

“I’m just sayin’—show me another man in town who could work with these constraints. I’ll wait.”

“You poor thing,” she says with a low, throaty laugh that makes me want to put my lips on her neck just to feel it. “You drive a hard bargain.”

And then she kisses me.

The flash from her phone goes off instantly—and then she pulls back too soon. My lips haven’t adjusted to her presence or absence yet.

She looks at the picture, then tucks the phone in her back pocket. “That was for them,” she says. Then she doesn’t let me go. She doesn’t step back or shake my hand, confirming our arrangement or otherwise treating it like a business deal.

Instead, she wraps her arm back around my neck.

“Does that mean there’s one for us?” I say it like I’m teasing, because I don’t want her to hear me beg.

She pauses and then lifts her face up.

I close my eyes.

And when her lips press against my cheek—only a fraction of an inch away from my own mouth—my hands clench on her back, holding her, anchoring her to me. If I let go now, I think I’ll be sucked into space.

She holds her lips there for three, four, five seconds, before pulling back and whispering, “That was for us.”

When she releases me and steps back, I almost stumble forward, like I’m drunk on her smell. On the feel of her skin.

“I should get you back to your car. You’re probably exhausted after that game.”

We turn and walk out of the old diamond. “I won’t be able to sleep anytime soon,” I admit.

“Why not?” She unlocks the car and gets into the driver’s seat.

My mind races, wondering how honest I should be.

Do I tell her that the memory of her lips is going to torture me all night?

Do I let her know that feeling her in my arms was so distracting, I can’t think straight?

“I gotta clear out my closet. Build some dressers. Scrub a toilet,” I say, wanting to punch myself for talking about a toilet.

“You know, the usual stuff a bachelor does before getting married.”

She grins, her eyes fixed on the dark, winding road ahead, lightning bugs. “You think you can make room for me, do you?”

No answer could be easier: “I know I can.”