When We Kissed
WHEN WE KISSED
Copyright © 2018 by Kimberly Proctor
This is a work of fiction. All characters, dialogue, and instances are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permissions contact:
Aurora Dream Press, LLC
P.O. Box 180, Bossier City, LA 71110-0180
Email: KimRoshell@aol.com
ISBN-13: 978-1981878260
ISBN-10: 1981878262
BISAC: Fiction / Romance / Contemporary
Cover by Berto Designs, LLC.
This book is dedicated to Aunt Barbara,
For telling me I should.
Thank you.
And for my mom, who encouraged my love for books.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
2:24 a.m.
Chapter Twenty-Five
12:22 a.m.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
One kiss from the right girl can wipe away
everything you thought you knew.
Whit
Granddaddy told me that.
Fresh from my very first encounter with Savannah Abbott, he’d seen us stumble out from the stables, doing what we could to remove the hay clinging in a few undesirable places. I’d just turned fourteen, and with my advanced aging into manhood came a new appreciation for some of the more distinct differences between the sexes, particularly those of Mr. Abbott’s precious baby girl. Reigning Miss Teen Louisiana and three years my senior, Savannah wasn’t obligated to be so patient while she broke me in. That girl made it her personal quest to educate me. Extensively. I certainly didn’t argue. And, like the good student I’ve always been, I did the work without complaining.
Fast forward four years, Granddaddy’s rebuke rings clear as Mama’s good crystal as if he’s lurking right in this here closet watching me and Simone Bruckner.
Simone Bruckner. Who can’t be the right girl.
Why?
Because she isn’t Ashley Goodwin, my girlfriend of two years and the girl I figure on marrying in the not too distant future.
Simone is, however, my intended’s BFF—and, man, can this girl kiss.
The velvety slip of her tongue is wiping away everything I thought I knew about anything.
Who solved Fermat’s Last Theorem? Need to know about anything to do with contrapositive statements? The periodic table? Names and terms lengths of every U.S. President and his right-hand man? All the simple shit I can ordinarily spout off at a moment’s notice.
Right now? I got nothing. Doing good to remember my own name.
Hard as I try, which honestly isn’t all that much, I can’t seem to recall how to back off, either. Oh, the command’s getting sent to my brain, but there’s a disconnect somewhere along the way, so instead of retreating, I’m leaning dangerously closer to the wrong girl until there’s only a hairsbreadth of space separating us.
Don’t leave much room for guilt.
Thankfully, the source of my near-death experience takes the lead, flattening her spine to the wall, leaving only an inch wide gap between us.
Just room enough for a few drops of blood to flow northbound again. I think we both groan. Know I do, anyway.
Ashley is going to kill me. “Shit.”
I rest my forehead on my arm braced against the wall directly above Simone’s head. During some point in our lip lock session, a pair of skis fell across my back. The brunt of their weight is settled on my left shoulder blade, however, slowing the plunge into hyperventilation has to take priority, so I ignore the discomfort.
Tiny puffs of warm breath escape Simone’s sweet mouth and pelt me square in the chest, doing little to settle my pulse. One thing’s for sure, her erratic breathing will do plenty in adding to our trouble if we don't get a handle on this.
“What did we just do?” she whispers.
“Uh?”
Good question. Don’t know if she really expects an answer. Dollars to donuts uh wasn’t the answer she wanted, though.
The taste of strawberries lingers on my tongue. I usually hate when girls coat their mouths with gloss. Even told Ashley not to bother as soon as we started dating, but this stuff Simone’s wearing—was wearing—took kissing to the next level. Turns the lips into pure candy.
Honestly, we finally made this game worth playing.
I try again. “We were just . . . where’d you learn to kiss like that?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Right,” I nod. “You’re right. Sorry.” Lie. Nowhere in the vicinity of sorry. “Just, well, you took me by surprise when you did that thing with your tongue—”
“Focus, Cowboy!” she whisper-shouts, serving me a jab to the chest with a single, dainty finger. “You kissed me! Did you forget that’s my friend sitting out there? My best friend who I’m sure expected me to spend all seven of these minutes in here not swapping spit with her boyfriend! Why in the world did you do that?”
Another good question. One for which I don’t rightly have a quick answer.
Quick answers? Child’s play for me. Usually.
Soft locks of her hair that my fingers were buried deep within a mere thirty seconds ago brush the underside of my chin in a feathery tickle. Just the memory of her scalp beneath my fingertips kicks my pulse up another notch. A fine sheen of sweat moistens my palms, a sure sign nerves are getting the better of me. Another not so common occurrence, but one I’m familiar enough with to know I’m in over my head. Just hearing her say kiss inspires a yearning in my blood to do just that.
The hem of her shirt is twisted around my thumb. I disengage, wipe my palm down the side of my jeans.
Sweat.
Cripes. Kissing Simone has broken me out into a sweat.
Why did I kiss this girl?
Can
’t blame flirting. Until a few minutes ago, I’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles she didn’t much care for me. There’re times when even her hellos leave me wishing I’d worn a sweater. Most days, I question if this girl hates my guts, actually. Tonight’s no different, except one minute we were in our neutral corners, biding our time until another six minutes had passed, and the next . . .
How the hell did we get to next? Beer’s not the culprit. I’m stone sober. Haven’t consumed anything stronger than Sprite all night.
Proximity? Situation?
Maybe.
Parkland Hills nowhere near qualifies as a metropolis. There’s only so much we can do. Hanging out at Coyne Park wasn’t an option since the weather is crappy and everyone else’s parents are home, which left us chilling out here in my best friend’s basement.
We settled on a movie, boredom setting in long before credits rolled. No one wanted to go home before curfew. Ryan, my best friend called game of the night—Seven Minutes in Heaven—a desperate ploy to manipulate some one-on-one with the latest girl of his dreams.
Despite numerous vetoes, he grabbed an empty bottle, got us started.
Girls were up first in the circle, guys took the spin. My previous two turns resulted in trips to the closet with Simone; my only trips thus far, this being our third. I made sure to kiss my girl’s cheek, whispered a few sweet somethings in her ear. Reassurance the mandatory seven minute “make-out sessions” would remain as innocent as my eight-year-old sister, Cheyenne.
In hindsight, that may not have translated quite how I planned. Not a difficult conclusion, seeing as Ashley wiped them away with the back of her hand the second I stood.
Actually, that sort of pissed me off because up to that point, I really was innocent. Simone, too. Anybody with eyes could see she wasn’t any happier to see the head of that Corona bottle pointed in her direction. And like me, she wasn’t overly eager to participate in this game from the get-go. Mono’s rounding our rival school faster than a cat streaking over an oily floor. It’s common knowledge there’re a few defectors in our extended circle of friends, one of them sitting only two spots away from Ashley.
The closet door barely closed on our first trip before Simone informed me, “We will not be kissing.”
Which is exactly what I’d been thinking.
Okay, not exactly what I’d been thinking, but close enough. After all, Simone is my girl’s best friend. Making out with your girlfriend’s best friend in a dark closet while your girlfriend’s sitting right outside?
Death wish.
A mildly intriguing death wish.
As the student burdened with the task of escorting the new guy around Grant High sophomore year, Simone just so happened to be the first girl I met. I’d peeped the curve-hugging red V-neck sweater she wore with dark blue jeans that molded her hips and thighs, her body a testament of the Lord’s goodness. She looked amazing. I almost applauded the welcoming committee’s selection, except, the barometer on the girl’s personality ran neck and neck with the temperature in the Arctic Tundra. She barely spoke, and trust when I say fans of LSU and Bama have made nicer than this girl and me ever since.
Nevertheless, I admit curiosity. What warm blooded, straight guy wouldn’t be? Simone isn’t a girl guys overlook. The sculpted cheekbones, the pert nose. And, those lips . . . She’s hot. Scorching. I’d have to be blind and deaf not to notice since lots of guys around school think the same and have zero qualms with voicing as much. The fact that she’s different—
Wait. That makes her sound like she has antennae sprouting from the top of her head, or a tail, or an extra arm or something.
Simone’s a . . . different kind of hot.
Like Beyoncé hot. Or, Halle hot.
Hmm, technically that’s two different kinds of hot, but you get the point?
Not that ethnicity matters one bit. Not to me, anyway. I’d dare say, when it comes to Simone, race is a nonissue for the majority of Grant’s male student population. She stays on the radar. In fact, I’d wager she ranks pretty damn high in more than a few guy’s top five, with good reason.
How she remains single is beyond me. Not that I’ve tried figuring it out. I’ve got a girl who also ranks high on a hefty number of guys’ Most Wanted. In their dreams. For nearly as long as my family has been relocated here in Ohio, Ashley and me have been an item. My girl has Granddaddy’s and Mama’s resounding approval.
Not an easy feat, I assure you.
So, truest answer to her question? For a few blissful minutes, I indulged with the one girl who should have stayed strictly off limits, though up until now, I’ve been a good boy. Kept my lips and hands to myself. All we’d done was trade clipped pleasantries. Both times afterward, Simone switched her seat to change my odds.
Course, this time she’s the one responsible for spinning us into the doghouse. Soon as that bottle stopped in front of my feet, I knew there’d be trouble. Tingles tramped down my spine in this strange foreboding of things to come. I chanced a glance to my left, peeped Ashley’s scowl. Simone kept her head down, though she did offer to spin again. That offer was met with a hearty chorus of “NO!” from the other eighteen people in the room.
Correction: seventeen. Ashley looked ready to use that bottle to do bodily harm.
I was all in favor of a furlough.
“Maybe she wants to kiss somebody else this time. What’s one more spin gonna hurt?” I’d asked, earning a rare look of gratitude from Simone.
“Opposed to all that kissing she’s done with you, Whit?” Ashley countered in a tone so menacing, I wanted to kick my own ass for the slip. Don’t know why. She’s been to this closet with two other guys, came out grinning both times.
“Not what I meant, babe,” I crooned softly. My goal was to avoid another scene, unfortunately not our first of the night. “Just mean maybe Simone wants a chance to kiss a guy she’s actually interested in. You know, someone uncommitted. Right Simone?”
Simone nodded in solidarity.
“See? All I meant,” I reiterated for good measure.
“Why should I believe you now, Whit? Maybe you’re the one looking for variety. Certainly wouldn’t be the first lie you’ve told.”
That might have done it. The accusation and that not so subtle way she called me out in front of everyone.
Then again, Simone’s declaration a few minutes ago that she’s never had a kiss leave her breathless—that may have done it, too.
We Devereauxs like a challenge.
And not to brag, but she sure sounds winded now.
A smidge of pride seeps into my airways. I hold my breath, savor what’s left of what’s sure to be a very short victory.
“Hello? The kiss?” demands Miss Breathless, effectively refocusing my full attention on the consequences of next.
Kisses would be more accurate, but granddaddy also taught me there’s a right and wrong time to argue semantics.
I offer the only excuse my short-circuited brain will allow. “Don’t know. Wasn’t planned. Maybe after I saw Ashley come out of here with other guys, I sorta lost my head. I mean, I know Matt and Nick. Neither of them couldn’t care less about boundaries.”
“Yeah, well apparently you can’t either.”
Touché. “Beg to differ, ma’am. Maybe I overstepped, but let’s be honest here, I wasn’t exactly doing all the work.”
Ask me, this girl gave better than she got.
I should demand a rematch.
“Two minutes,” Ryan, my soon to be ex-best friend shouts from the other side of the door.
Why soon-to-be ex?
How about I wouldn’t be in this predicament had he not chosen this game?
My eyes snap open when Simone clears her throat.
“She doesn’t usually act like that,” she murmurs.
“True.”
“Why’d you let her drink so much anyway? What happened to the one-beer limit?”
Fair question. Ashley’s had two more than usual. Unbeknownst to
Simone, my girl is pissed.
I can’t see her expression—light’s off this time, which come to think of it, may have lent to the temptation—but she sounds confused. Pretty sure confusion served as the motivating factor behind her willingly (okay, begrudgingly) following me in here this time. For the time being, I’m likely the easier for her to figure out. Stands to reason Simone wouldn’t feel too sure what to make of me or her best friend right now with how Ashley’s behaving. She can be sensitive as all get out, but the volatility she’s displaying tonight is out of character.
“Thought she’d cool off. We, uh, had a disagreement earlier.”
She sighs. Not one of the usual Why-Are-We-Talking sighs she saves just for me. This sigh is nice. Concerned. Like she’s not wishing me invisible.
I like it.
“I knew something wasn’t right.”
“Understatement.”
“She been a little moody. Knowing her, she’ll be over it by morning.”
Doubtful. “Eh, she’s a little peeved with a choice I’ve made.”
“Yeah, well, she wouldn’t like this one, either.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, while trying my damnedest not to stick my nose any closer to her hair. Not easy. The cakey scent is seducing my already heightened senses. As it is, I can’t resist rubbing a few strands floating just below my fingertips. Softer than silk.
“Probably not,” I murmur. “I, uh, applied Single-Choice Early Action to Yale. Got my acceptance letter.”
Even in the dark, I can tell Simone’s lifted her head. Means our lips are perfectly aligned to get me into a whole new heap of trouble.
“Are you serious?”
She presses her warm palm flat against my chest, fingers splayed. I can’t decide if I should love or hate this game anymore. For the first time in hours, my chest swells with hard-suppressed pleasure.
Not from her touch.
Okay, maybe a little from that. But after the way Ashley took the news, I’ve held back on the enthusiasm. Hearing Simone’s reaction? That hint of wonder in her voice so soon after testing the pliability of her lips?
Oh man.
I nod, though it’s near pitch in here. Swallow a groan as her pinkie brushes over my nipple.
“That’s amazing, Whit. You’ve gotta be seriously stoked.”