Page 58 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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A sudden silence falls between us. I break it when I say, “And which side are you on?”

Braxton scrubs a hand across his jaw as a wash of something dull and shadowy sweeps over his gaze. By the time I recognize it as remorse, he’s pressing closer, breathing the name only he calls me. A name that’s really starting to grow on me.

“Tasha,” he says, “Darling, I…” The tip of his fingers graze against my arm, leaving a trail of sparks prickling over my skin as he traces a path from the faux fur stole at my neck all the way down to the slim circle of gold at my wrist.

Beneath the glow of the moon and smattering of stars glimmering overhead, his face shines raw and earnest before me. His gaze searching, questioning. His lips conflicted yet parting anyway…

Driven by the quickening in my chest, the tingling sensation stirring deep in my belly, I find myself instinctively pressing toward him. The fingers of my left hand entwining with his. Those on my right, curling at the base of his neck, adrift in his soft tousle of hair.

There’s a disapproving voice in my head that’s bent on reminding me how I don’t really know this boy—that I need to take a step back and pull myself together before I do something I’ll only regret.

The voice isn’t wrong, but I ignore it. Because the urge to kiss Braxton’s beautiful mouth, the need to feel the brush of his lips against mine, is so primal and strong, it won’t be denied.

“You feel it, too.” Gazing at me through a thick sweep of lashes, he flexes his fingers and flattens his palm until we’re lifeline to lifeline. “This energy between us. It’s so familiar. I can see it in your eyes—it’s not just me.”

Stripped of all the masks he normally wears—academy tour guide, bringer of coffee, elegant dining companion—the vulnerable version of Braxton stands bared before me, revealing a boy who’s so sure of the invisible lure drawing us together, he’s willing to name it, claim it, as a tangible force that cannot be ignored.

This energy between us.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, knowing I can’t lie about the attraction I’ve felt since the moment I saw him.

Can’t deny how, for a fleeting moment, I wondered if I might actually know him.

Can’t pretend this flicker of sparks now blazing within is nothing more than a conditioned response to the sort of devastating good looks Braxton is lucky enough to possess.

For the last year, I’ve sworn off moments like this—making out with random guys I barely know in a quest to feel seen, needed, desired, and chosen—only to end up with a blur of fleeting false pleasures that left me reeling with shame.

But the sound of my name dripping from Braxton’s tongue, with the hardTat the front and the velvetyAat the end, leaves no doubt that the long list of reasons for why this kiss shouldn’t happen won’t make the slightest bit of difference.

Because this boy, on this night, in this glorious moonlit garden, feels specifically designed for guilty pleasures like this.

And when his fingers lace with mine, his gaze holds the question I think I’m finally ready to answer.

Attraction is a hard thing to articulate, and impossible to fake. It’s either there, or it’s not. And this energy pulsating between us, well, it’s about as real as it gets.

It’s just a kiss. Just one silly kiss. So why wait? Let it happen already!

With less than a whisper between his lips and mine, I tip onto my toes and lean closer to him. “I feel it, too,” I say, my mouth instinctively slanting toward his.

Out of nowhere, a terrible sound echoes and we spring apart like two teens whose parents just caught them necking in the basement.

Only there are no parents.

No basement.

And who the heck even uses words like “necking” anymore?

Braxton squints as though waking from a dream, then fumbles for his pocket when the noise sounds again.

Only this time, I realize it’s not so horrible.

In fact, it’s actually pretty. Though it is really loud.

He shakes his head, pulls a small tablet-like device from his jacket, and silences the sound. “Mozart, ‘The Magic Flute,’” he says. “It’s the ten-minute warning.”

I pull my stole tighter around me. I have no idea what is happening. But when I reach for Braxton, he moves away so quickly, my hand flops awkwardly back to my side.