I scoffed and took a step toward him. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me, Wes Hobbes. And you once told me Death to Smoochy was Robin Williams’s tour de force, so clearly we have an impressive backlist of stupid things to choose from.”

“ Death to Smoochy is an underrated cinematic masterpiece about cynicism and greed, but agree to disagree, I guess,” he mumbled softly. “And

you know what? That’s so easy for you to say now.”

“No, I thought Death to Smoochy was awful then too.”

“Not the movie, Addie. Me. Us. Admittedly, I’ve done a little better for myself than anyone could have guessed. It’s amazing

what money and connections and a father you always know will care about you just a little bit less if you don’t continually

achieve can do for a guy. But then? Are you kidding me? I never would have become anything. And don’t get me wrong—I don’t

think I’d have minded that so much, in hindsight. But you?” He chuckled, but the sound was laced with exasperation. “You have

always been remarkable. And I’m sorry I left, Addie. I’m so sorry I left. But if you think for even one moment that it was

because I didn’t want to spend my life with you or because I didn’t love you enough—”

For the second time in a matter of hours, I threw myself into his arms, knocking the wind out of him, and he exhaled against

me just as my lips met his. And it was, quite frankly, the worst, most awkward kiss of my life. It was like I’d forgotten

how to kiss, really. No. You know what? I’m being far too kind to myself calling it a kiss. I’m being far too cruel to the act

of kissing to lump this atrocity into its storied and glorious legacy. It was like in the old-time classic movies when two

sets of tightly closed mouths and freakishly open eyes just stayed in place, and you never noticed how weird actually kissing

like that would be because you were too caught up in the crescendoing orchestrations and the way the shadows of the black-and-white

film made everything seem sultry, even when it was really, really not.

Wes was clearly in shock. Of course he was.

And I was sort of... well, not in shock really.

I was more sort of paralyzed. Like, I wanted to pull away, but my brain couldn’t get my body to kick into gear and do anything.

In fact, all my brain could focus on was how I was going to get out of the situation.

And I don’t mean the kiss itself. Oh no.

That would have been a good thing to be focused on.

That was exactly what my brain should have been devoting all its energy to.

(Although, really, how difficult should it have been to instruct myself to stop impersonating

one of those suckerfish that clean the algae off the tank and just pull away and run?) But no. My brain—my usually-not-too-shabby

brain that had once been trusted with State secrets, if you can believe that—thought it was a good time to plan ahead. My

brain seemed to believe the end of the kiss-of-prepubescent-nightmares was inevitable. A sure thing. And apparently, I was

confident enough about that to start trying to figure out how to get out of the awkwardness that was oh so guaranteed to follow.

I was trying to come up with a witty exit line and yet... I was still attacking his face !

Finally he pulled away, which I was grateful for. I mean, my teeth were starting to hurt. Never a good sign. But it was also

horrifying, of course. And even more horrifying (although “more horrifying” was sort of like “more dead”—not really possible)

was that my brain was already moving the film forward here, too, in light of the new development.

He was a good guy now. I was convinced. I even found myself sort of having to admit to myself that I liked him. Whatever.

And worst of all, when he’d opened his bedroom door that morning with his shirt unbuttoned, I’d received the six-pack-abs

confirmation I had neither sought nor desired. Again... whatever. So of course he was going to be charming and swoony and a gentleman and let me off the hook easily in a way that was going to simultaneously

endear him to me further and make me hate him just a little bit.

If nothing else, I had to beat him to the punch on that one.

“Well, that sucked. I mean, it was no Death to Smoochy , but it was pretty bad.”

Yep. That’s what I said.

“Addie—”

“Look, Wes, I’m sorry, okay? It’s been an emotional day already.

That’s all. I didn’t sleep much, I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and I swear even Elkrique Iglesias is judging me right now.

” I lowered my voice an octave. “‘I’ve been dead and mounted on a wall for thirty years, and I’m a better kisser than you. ’”

Regrettable.

I put my hand over my eyes, as if blocking out the sight of him would hopefully make me invisible, and said, “Okey dokey.

Well, I’ll just be going.” Turning away from him, I began walking out of the dining room. I wasn’t willing to completely uncover

my eyes, but I needed to see where I was going, so I looked down at the ground and cupped my hand like a visor. That’s when

I remembered I’d left my shoes behind. Ah well. When one is climbing into a departing lifeboat on the Titanic , one simply does not go back for one’s opera glasses. “Forget this happened. Forget you ever met me. In fact, I think it’s

probably best—”

“Nope.” He grabbed my loose hand and spun me around—which occurred in very fast and dramatic fashion, owing to socks on the

hardwood floor and all—and I gasped as he used the momentum of the spin to draw me in against him. He lowered himself to my

eye level and wrapped both his arms around my waist, then pulled my body flush with his and rose slightly, taking me with

him so I was on my toes. “Don’t you dare go and start thinking on me, Adelaide. Not just yet.”

His lips parted slightly, and I instinctively took in a breath, and my eyes fluttered shut in the instant before his mouth

captured mine. The fingers that had been covering my eyes combed their way into his hair while the other arm, which had been

dangling since he released my hand, looped around his shoulders.

Suddenly not even my toes were touching the floor, and before I realized what I was doing, I had looped my legs around his waist. Well, I think that’s what my legs were going for, anyway.

But I was shorter than him, of course, and they’d more sort of latched on around his thighs, like I was attempting to climb up a fireman’s pole.

And because I was holding on for dear life and clamping his legs together a little bit, Wes began having a difficult time walking us toward the couch, as he had begun to.

Not only that, but he was having to lower his head farther and farther in his attempts to keep our lips engaged as I slid down his body.

He chuckled against me, and I was sure I had ruined the entire thing. And unlike the horrific suckerfish experience, I hadn’t

wanted this to end. Lucky for me, Wes had no intention of giving up so easily. I simultaneously gulped in an inordinate amount

of air and felt all the oxygen leave my body in surrender to him as he lowered into a squat and looped one arm under my hips

and hoisted me up until my legs were (finally, mercifully) wrapped around his waist. His eyes remained locked with mine as

he carried me over to the leather couch by the fire, lowered me down, and then sat beside me.

“That was all I was going for. Was that so difficult?” I asked.

Then his twinkling eyes disappeared so that his lips and mine could carry on in their attempts to get reacquainted.