Page 111 of Lessons in Timing

He had one hand in my hair and tenderly gripped near the base of my skull, guiding my head back so he could peer into my eyes. “Why would you ever scowl at a duck? What did ducks ever do to you?”

I appreciated his willingness to follow me on this duck-related fantasy, but I couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t answered yet. I swallowed thickly, searching that endless green and the teasing smile and the gentle raising of his brows. “If it’s too much—” I began, but Lucas pulled me into a slow, languid kiss, his tongue brushing against mine and his lower lip catching on the scruff of my chin.

He bit down on my lip—not too hard, just hard enough really—then quietly whispered into my mouth. “Okay.”

My body shuddered happily and I pulled him in closer, leaning back slowly until we were splayed across the bed again, Lucas’s hips framing mine, the curve of his back filling my palms with strong, warm muscle. My shoulder landed on something cold and hard, and despite myself I broke the kiss to see what it was.

Lucas laughed softly and plucked my phone out from its vortex of sheets. He held it up playfully, so that the black mirrored side faced me. My reflection looked on in vexed disinhibition. “Shall we begin with a few glamour shots, Mr. Demetrio?”

My mouth pulled into a half grin, and I levered my hips, reaching for Lucas’s shoulder and pulling him down beside me. “I actually wouldn’t mind a quick selfie, Mr. Barclay.”

He giggled and began sitting up again to take the photo, but I shook my head. “No, withyou, love. Together.”

Uncertainty crossed Lucas’s face—unbidden, I remembered how hard it had been early on to find photos of Lucas that weren’t heavily edited. To find any photosofhim. He clearly felt far more comfortable on one side of the camera than the other.

“It’ll just be for us,” I whispered, “but we don’t have to.”

He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, his gaze turning stormy, but then he gave a shy smile and lay down beside me again, holding the phone up above both our heads and pulling up the camera. “Wow,” he breathed, presumably at the sight of himself—eyes bright, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, and all of him heart-achingly beautiful.

I was there too, unable to look away from him. I leaned in to nip at his neck as he took the picture, drawing out a delightfully surprised laugh. He snuggled up to me again, warm wet breath on my chest making me shiver and burn and melt into the mattress.

“London,” he muttered against my shoulder, and I closed my eyes in bliss. However temporary.

Were we moving too fast? Likely so.

But if we’d learned anything from this entire debacle, it was that we could hardly rely on the universe’s so-called natural order of things.

Let alone its poor sense of timing.