He Kissed Me First (Kiss & Make Up Book 2)

by Sara H Ney

  Very sharp.

  Very dapper.

  Muy delicioso.

  He looks over and studies me back. “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing. I just noticed you wear blue a lot. You look very handsome tonight, by the way.”

  “Thanks, you do too. Not handsome. Ugh, that’s not what I meant. Comfy. Pretty. You look amazing, is what I meant. Oh my god, I’ve turned into an idiot,” he laughs. “You can shut up any time now Matthew,” he adds, mocking himself in a low, grumbling voice. His laughter is soft but deep, and fills the cab of the Tahoe in a way that makes the space feel small.

  Intimate.

  Phew, is it hot in here? Maybe it’s time to crack the window and let some fresh air in!

  I could easily reach over and touch him if I wanted to, but instead, I clear my throat. Again. We’ve been driving for a while, and I am dying of curiosity to know where we’re headed - without having to ask out right.

  But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about guys it’s this:

  1. They do not take hints very well.

  2. Often, they need things “spelled out for them.”

  3. Subtly is useless.

  Once when I was younger, I wanted to go to the mall with my friends, and wanted my Dad to give me spending money. I tried hinting around for an entire day, dropping hints and being an overly dramatic teen. Finally, my Dad stopped me and said “If there’s something you’re trying to tell me by moping around, you better come out with it because I have no idea what’s happening right now. Men aren’t mind-readers Cecelia.”

  So take my advice: come out and ask if you want something because a guy - no matter how smart - will never get the hint.

  He. Just. Won’t.

  Ever.

  Besides, don’t you agree that beating around the bush is just a different form of game playing?

  “Where are we going?” I cut to the chase, direct without sounding overly anxious.

  “Nosey little thing, aren’t you?” Smiling, Matthew reaches across the center council to grasp my hand, interlocking our fingers. I look down at our joined hands, marveling at the difference in their size, shape and feel. While my hands are silky smooth from pampering and manicures, his are dry, rough and calloused.

  A hard-working man’s hands. Utterly masculine.

  There is a dusting of dark hair on his knuckles that actually makes me swallow a lump in my throat. Seriously - the hair on his knuckles is turning me on? Clearly I have issues...

  I can’t stop staring at his thumb caressing my pale skin - the sensation feels both foreign and intimate: not necessarily a bad different, just... different.

  “I’m sorry, is this too weird for you?” Matthew asks as if reading my mind - or my face. He’s probably noticed that my cheeks are on fire. In any case, I glance away from his heated, piercing green eyes, and tilt my chin up.

  “If you’re trying to distract me so you don’t have to reveal our destination, it’s not going to work.”

  Matthew snickers and squeezes my hand twice. “Maybe you should let yourself be surprised.”

  “You can’t blame me for being curious,” I mumble, face turned towards the window. For a brief few moments, I quietly watch the landscape go by - a farm in the distance, windmills, and a small shopping center zoom past - before we pass a Target and a home improvement giant. I cannot imagine for the life of me where we could possibly be headed. “Can’t you just tell me?”

  “You’re almost as bad as Molly,” Matthew observes, snickering. “She cannot stand not knowing anything. Once, I think for her twelfth birthday, Jenna tried throwing her a surprise birthday at our parents’ house - the house we lived in at the time had a pool - but Molly was so suspicious that when the day of the party finally arrived, they couldn’t get her into the back yard for the actual surprise. Jenna had to drag her by the arm, and by the time they made it to the back yard, Molly was so pissed off and embarrassed she spent the first twenty minutes of her party in the house pouting before she’d put her swim suit on.”

  Yeah. I could totally see my roommate doing that.

  “My mom was so pissed that she was being such a little brat. I was convinced they’d ban her from having any more birthday parties.” Matthew chuckles at the memory. “Everything turned out fine, of course, but if Molly wouldn’t have been so damn suspicious leading up to the party, she would have had a ton more fun. And wouldn’t have gotten her ass chewed out in the process.”

  I give him a sideways glance. “I’m not sure I get what your point is here and how that relates to me. That story is an atrocious comparison.”

  Matthew snorts. “My point is, just enjoy the ride. Don’t be so uptight.”

  Uptight? Me? Pfft.

  We ride in silence for a few more miles, before turning into the well-lit parking lot of an ice arena.

  So not what I was expecting.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Matthew

  “Girlfriend? That’s a funny way to pronounce Netflix” - Rachel Sinclair, Molly’s occasional (and always sarcastic) study partner.

  “Man, am I glad I brought these babies,” Cecelia croons beside me, referring to the hat and mittens she’s just donned, and looking absolutely adorable and delicious in both. Her long wavy hair spills out the bottom of the gray cable-knit cap, framing her flushed cheeks and highlighting her finely arched eyebrows and the cupid’s bow of her pert lips.

  Okay, okay - I’m probably waxing poetic a little too freely, and it’s probably not the hat accentuating so much as the fact I can’t stop staring and admiring her many fine features.

  We’re seated in the stands of Madison Ice Arena North, a low rent facility on the edge of town, closer to the ghetto than I’m used to, and about a thirty minute drive from the rink where my kids normally play.

  They don’t have a game tonight; no. Tonight is actually an exhibition of leagues and kids that have split into smaller teams to play in three-on-three tournament brackets. I don’t have any of my students participating this year; at one hundred twenty five bucks a pop, the astronomical entry fees alone keep them at bay - but I still come year-after-year to watch the younger generations of kids play. Especially the Pee-Wee’s.

  The arena is cold - really freaking cold - and Cecelia hunkers down next to me on the wooden bench, sidling up close and clutching a hot chocolate in her gloved hands.

  “Brrrr,” she shivers, taking a loud sip, steam rises from the small gap in the top. She lifts the cup and studies the steaming hole with one eye. “How come, do you suppose, the hot chocolate at these things is always just made from water and cocoa mix? Yucko.”

  “Because it’s cheap,” I hypothesize. “Plus, it’s cheap.”

  Cecelia laughs into her cup and eyes someone above the rim. “But maybe not as cheap as that chick over there,” she nods towards the ice, where someone’s mother stands next to the boards wearing a short skirt, heels, and a sweater. Not exactly ice rink appropriate apparel. I mean - its bleeding fifty-five degrees in here, tops.

  “Please don’t let me out of your sights tonight; not with that one running loose,” I say as a horrified chuckle escapes my lips, only half joking. Those rink bunnies (who show up everywhere) can spot a meal-ticket from one hundred yards away, and I don’t want her smelling me. “I don’t even want you leaving to go to the bathroom. Haha.”

  “You better be nice to me then,” Cecelia playfully bumps me with her shoulder. “Otherwise, I’ll flag her down with my hat and offer you up on a platter.”

  I lean in close. “You wouldn’t dare...”

  She leans in, unflinching, and purses her glossy lips. “Try me.”

  Just a few centimeters closer, and I peck her lips, sending a surprised and embarrassed blush to her already flushed cheeks. With a gloved hand, she reaches up and touches her mouth, smiling. “Okay, well, that definitely earned you brownie points.”

  “I hope so, because your lips taste like hot chocolate and coconut. And coconut just beca
me my new favorite thing of all time.”

  “That’s funny; I remember Weston saying the same thing when he discovered your sister wore edible body glitter.”

  I stare at her for a second. “What is it with you people? Why does everyone have to constantly remind me that my sister is ‘doing it’ with that guy? You just killed my buzz.”

  Cecelia arches her eyebrow and digs in her bag, pulling out a tube of clear lip gloss. She turns it towards me and I read the label: Coconut. “I know how I can make it better...”

  “Um, okay. Yeah. That might help me feel a little better.” I watch, somewhat spellbound, as she slowly unscrews the cap and begins swiping it back and forth across her full lips before rubbing them together. Then, I utter a phrase I’ve heard my dad say to my mom a million times. “Come here and give me some of that sugar...”

  It’s cheesy but it works, because she leans into me with a big grin on her face and presses her body against mine on the cold bench. Her large, expressive brown eyes are lined with dark liner - her lashes look a mile long. For the first time, I notice she has a few rogue freckles next to her nose and I reach up to touch one, connecting each dot with the tip of my finger. She smiles and kisses my palm, nuzzling her cheek into my hand. I immediately bring my other hand up to cup her face, marveling at the soft, blemish free skin under my calloused finger.

  We both lean closer still, until there’s no room between our bodies and I pucker my lips dramatically, causing Cecelia to giggle, before our eyes slide shut for our impending kiss.

  Our lips are a breath away before I hear a loud “Hey Coach!” somewhere off in the peripheral distance. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it’s an oddly familiar voice and makes me pause long enough to crack my eyes open.

  “Coach! Coach, down here!”

  **Cecelia**

  Groaning (not from pleasure) Matthew lifts his head - but not before stealing another quick kiss - and stares out into the crowd in search of the small voice that had certainly been shouting at him.

  He doesn’t have to search long, for down at the bottom of the bleachers, wearing jeans and a red hooded “Madison Lightening” sweatshirt is none other than a waving, enthusiastic Andy Boskowitz - standing next to a grinning Mitchell Decker, and that kid Stew. Stewart. A proverbial Three Musketeers, they’re all holding popcorn and soda, and are headed up the stairs in our direction.

  “Ah shit,” Matthew mumbles. “Brace yourself.”

  The boys continue climbing towards us, Mitchell tripping on one of the steps and almost spilling his popcorn. He pauses to re-position his glasses, not once losing his cheeky grin.

  “Oh my god, they are so freaking cute,” I gush as the trio awkwardly lumbers forward. “I can’t even stand it.”

  Matthew casts a glance over and looks at me like I’ve just confessed my undying love to Skittles. “Are you nuts? Our whole night is about to be ruined.”

  I laugh, despite the serious expression on his face - or perhaps because of it. “Seriously? How could they possibly ruin this romantic atmosphere you’ve planned for us? Look around you; If anything, they’re about to enhance it with their shenanigans...”

  “Shenanigans is one of my favorite words,” Andy Boskowitz proclaims as he plunks himself down next to Matthew. “My brother watches Super Troopers all the time so that’s how I know that word.”

  As if that explains everything.

  “Hey Coach. I thought you said she wasn’t your girlfriend,” Mitchell says, sandwiching himself between Matthew and myself without ceremony - or permission. He fits a handful of popcorn into his mouth, staring up at Matthew through his thick eyeglasses. “Well?”

  Yeah. Well?

  Inquiring minds wanted to know.

  “Do you remember what I told you in the parking lot after practice last week Mitchell? About some things being private?” Matthew looks down at him, stern look on his face.

  “Nope, you didn’t say that,” Mitchell says obliviously, as Matthew gives him a hard stare. “I would remember.” He taps his skull for emphasis.

  Before Matthew can rebuttal, Stewart cuts in from the bench behind us. He has his elbow resting on Matthew’s shoulders, casually hovering over him. “Hey Coach, do you think next year we can enter this tournament? The three-on-three scrimmage looks cool.”

  “I don’t know, Stew, it’s pretty expensive. We’d probably have to do some fundraising to raise the money, and that takes up a lot of time.”

  Stewart takes a drag off his soda straw, the ice cubes sloshing in the sweating cup. Some of the drops fall on Matthew’s shoulder, creating a damp spot. He sighs. “If it’s something you guys really want to do, I’ll talk to Coach McGrath and maybe we can figure something out, but no promises. How does that sound?”

  “Cool. Hey, Coach. Do you think your girlfriend here would want to be our Team Manager?”

  “We don’t need a Team Manager, Stewart.”

  Mitchell’s arm shoots up and thrusts his fist in the air, finger pointing straight up, ala Sherlock Holms just having solved a mystery. “Ah ha! So you admit she’s your girlfriend.”

  “I was not admitting she’s my girlfriend.”

  “But you also didn’t deny it.”

  Matthew shoots me a beseeching look. “Would you help me out here, please?”

  I cross my arms and lean back, resting against the seat behind me. “Why would I do that when this is so entertaining?”

  “Because. I’m being ambushed by a pack of eleven year olds. They’re like the hyenas in the Lion King.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Before he can respond, one of the boys interrupts. “Hey, Coach. What are you doing here, anyways?”

  “I’m on a date, Andy.” He says this through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.

  “Whoa, no need to get snippy, Coach.” Andy Boskowitz looks around. “A date with who?”

  “With me,” I finally chime in, plucking a few kernels of popcorn from Mitchell’s popcorn bag. I chew it noisily.

  For a second, all three boys look confused, until Andy, who begins unwrapping his hot dog, says, “Oh, so you were being serious when you said you weren’t gay. I get it now.”

  I laugh and ruffle his shaggy hair. “No, luckily for me, Coach Wakefield is not gay. At least, I don’t think he is...” I wink at Matthew, but he isn’t amused.

  “If you’re on a date, then why are you here?” Mitchell asks. “My sister would be so pissed - sorry, I mean mad - if her boyfriend brought her here for a date. I mean. She has some pretty low standards, but still...” He shoves more popcorn into his mouth. “Even she wouldn’t wanna come here.”

  “Yeah, Coach. This place is a dump,” Andy throws in helpfully.

  “Gee, thanks guys,” Matthew deadpans. Unfortunately for him, the sarcasm flies right over their eleven year old heads.

  “You shouldn’t be thanking us, Coach. Seriously, this place is a shithole. Did you see the bathrooms? I think someone wiped their crap on one of the stall doors.” Andy Boskowitz clearly is wise beyond his years, and he gives me a pitying look. “Right where it says ‘Gretchen G is a Slut’

  Stewart, in the spirit of the conversation, perks up. “You know what would have been a better choice, Coach? A fancy dinner and maybe bowling. That new Super Alley is awesome. You can bowl and play video games if you get bored.”

  Mitchell agrees. “Yeah! Did you see the Mortal Combat game they just got? It’s so cool. I was the fifth highest score last time I was there!” Mitchell and Stewart bump fists, then make exploding sounds - as they do, a few particles of popcorn fly out of Mitchells’ mouth and onto Stewarts’ jacket.

  “Hey! Watch it!” Steward scolds, clearly disgusted and disgruntled by his friend’s flying chunks.

  I steal a glance at Matthew, who is rolling his eyes and shaking his head ruefully in my direction, finally casting a glance at me over Mitchells head and mouthing ‘I told you so.’

  ** An hour later...**

  “Ugh, I tol
d you that would happen,” Matthew pouts in the parking lot an hour later as he blindly tries jamming his keys into the ignition. “I should have known that of all the kids to run in to, of course it would have been those three.”

  “Actually I would say it went pretty well.” At his frown I add, “Just being honest. What’s that saying you threw out at me once? Don’t shoot the messenger...?”

  “You have a warped sense of humor, Miss Carter.”

  I shrug into my warm, fall jacket, hunkering down as the wind outside blows frantically around the car, bending trees like twigs along the road and causing the Tahoe to skip from its weight. It’s cold and damp and cozy. The perfect kind of weather.

  Also the perfect weather for another hot chocolate or tea, which is what we were pulling in to the Starbucks parking lot to get.

  I shiver again as I hop out of the truck, Matthew beating me to the door and holding it open. We step inside, side-by-side, and shuffle up to the counter. It’s getting late, but there are still plenty of people loitering: a man sits with his laptop at one of the pedestal tables, Grande cup of...something in front of him. In a large, overstuffed leather chair, a dark haired woman with dreadlocks seems fully immersed in a paperback - until she glances up and our eyes make contact, both of us smile in acknowledgement before she buries her face back in her novel.

  Near the barista’s counter, two older teenagers sit together at a high table, textbooks open in front of them; one frantically typing away on her phone - the other has ear buds planted, head bobbing, and is copying notes from his book to a steno pad.

  There is a large fireplace dividing the entire store, the dimly lit space brightened by the crackling, orange flames as they cast a warm heat throughout. Two large, worn, leather chairs and a coffee table flank the tile hearth. I walk over and set my purse down on one of the chairs, claiming it before we order at the counter and take our seats again.

  We sit idly before speaking, both of us sipping our hot beverages and listening to the mellow soundtrack of instrumental music above head - both of us seemingly captivated by the open flames in front of us.