Karma’s Kiss

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Obviously, I flee the bathroom as quickly as possible. Ms. Pink Ballet Flats doesn’t follow right away. In fact, I can’t tell when she leaves the bathroom because our table is positioned at an odd angle and I don’t have a clear view of the hallway. Even if I lean back in my chair—which I do, almost tipping over in the process—it’s hopeless. I have no way of identifying the mystery woman.

I tell myself it’s not that big of a deal. From what I remember, I didn’t say anything that damning, just espionage talk concerning a secret takedown plan. I’m sure a lot of people chatter away about that stuff while they’re in restaurant bathrooms. Nothing to sweat about.

Still, I can’t leave it up to chance. While Sawyer is caught up in browsing the dessert menu, I glance around the restaurant, cataloguing any faces that jump out at me. My hope that most of the patrons are strangers is sadly not fulfilled.

Dr. Villanueva—my old orthodontist—and her husband are a few tables over. Across the restaurant, Laura Pearson and Pamela Brown are enjoying a bottle of wine and appetizers with Stacey Wolfe and Paulette Dougherty. All four women are in my mom’s book club. Any of them might be the proud owner of pink flats.

The Boyds are on a double date with the Langs. They wave when they see me looking in their direction, and I wave back quickly before turning back to face Sawyer. There’s no need to continue the search; it’s not looking good for me.

“Think we’ll have room for chocolate mousse?” Sawyer asks, dropping the menu and making me jump.

Clearly, I need to chill.

“Sure. Love the stuff.” I don’t sound overly enthused.

He leans back and crosses his arms, studying me. Tonight, his hair is so perfectly done, styled with a wave. It’s formal but not pretentious, handsome without being smarmy. I also love his white button-down. Can white be someone’s color? It looks so good on him.

“You’ve gone quiet on me…” he notes.

Right. I haven’t exactly been the best company tonight; I’ve been too in my head about everything. First, following through with Kendra’s plan. Then, desperately wanting to abandon it altogether.

If it’s impossible for me to solve the mystery of the pink flats, I might as well forget about it and move on. I’m here with Sawyer and I’m really enjoying our date. Kendra’s plan was foolish and it was silly of me to go along with it, but it’s not too late to salvage the rest of dinner. It’s that simple.

I smile and tilt my head, studying him. “Do you think it’s too soon for me to be dating again?”

His mouth hitches with the start of a smile. “Ah. Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”

I shrug to get out of having to answer, that way it’s not an outright lie.

“Is there a hard-and-fast rule? If so, I’ve never heard of one.”

“I was engaged to someone a month ago,” I point out, genuinely curious about his opinion on things.

“And he lost his chance.”

God, the way he says it, it sounds so possessive. I have to hide my reaction with a sip of my spicy paloma.

“I had plans for self-improvement and introspection. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Sweat it out on a hike through the desert?”

Sawyer cracks up. “How about we get you on the fast track instead? We’ll devour this dinner, we’ll order the chocolate mousse, and then”—he leans forward and lowers his voice—“we can find somewhere fun to park my truck.”

“For a little stargazing?” I ask, pure innocence.

“Sure,” he says, flashing his dimples.

“You’re not getting any ideas now, are you?” I tease. “It’s only the second date.”

“Second date. Right. I’ll be good.”

My stomach coils tight as our eyes lock, and for a hot second I wish he hadn’t made that promise.

It’s a little past midnight and Sawyer and I are on a secret mission fueled by nothing but giddiness and a slight buzz from our dinner cocktails.

I creep through Queenie’s back door, keeping the lights off on purpose because my mom is not a deep sleeper. Sawyer walks in behind me, keeping close.

“Step where I step,” I instruct. “The floorboards creak.”

After we left dinner, Sawyer drove us over to Mayberry Park, and we climbed into the back of his truck and spent half an hour searching for stars through the dense clouds.

“I don’t see anything,” I lamented after straining my eyes.

“Me neither.”

“I guess the only thing left to do is make out.”

Sawyer’s head snapped in my direction so fast I thought he might sprain it. I laughed and jostled him with my shoulder. “I’m kidding. Let’s go over to the ballfield.”

Sawyer’s baseball equipment was still in his truck from the game on Saturday, and it only took him a few minutes to figure out how to turn on the field lights. We took turns pitching to each other. I was terrible at it, but Sawyer still managed to knock them out of the park. When it was my turn, if I even managed to ding them a few feet, Sawyer would whoop and holler.

“You’re a natural!”

Baseball worked up our appetites, though, and once we’d exhausted our batting arms, I told him I had an idea.

“Shhh!” I chide now. “You stomp like an elephant.”

“I’m bigger than you. Of course I’m going to sound heavier.”

“Well try to channel a ballerina. Get on those tippy toes.”

He reaches out to squeeze my middle, and it tickles. I whirl around and sock his arm. “Knock it off, will you? You’re jeopardizing our mission!”

“Which is what again, exactly?”

“We’re going to steal cookies from the cookie jar. Queenie made a whole batch of her famous chocolate chunk cookies for the school bake sale tomorrow, but I know there’s gotta be a few extra.”

“I remember your house smelling good when I picked you up.”

“It smelled like that all day and Queenie wouldn’t let me have a single cookie! It was torture!”

Though I warned him to stick close, Sawyer peels off my established path through the kitchen and bangs his shin against the leg of the kitchen table.

“Oh my god, you could never be a spy!” I tell him.

Now he’s jumping around, acting like he needs his leg amputated. “Why’d she need to put the table right there anyway? Get me some ice, would you? It’s swelling.”

“Oh come on . You barely banged it.”

“I’m sure it’s a bloody mangled mess. I’ll need twenty stitches at least.”

I laugh and then—realizing I’m being too loud—quickly lower my voice. “Don’t be ridiculous. Let me see.”

I’m already kneeling on the floor before him, squinting in the dark, tugging on his pant leg. “Here?” I ask, skimming my thumb over the front of his left shin.

“No. Higher ,” he says with wicked intent.

“Hilarious.”

I intentionally press on the spot where there’s a tiny bump on his shin, and he winces. “Dammit, now it’s really going to bruise.”

He reaches down and hooks his hands underneath my arms so he can haul me back to my feet and away from his injured leg, lest I get any more ideas about “healing” him. Our bodies brush together and his hands slide from beneath my arms, down along the curve of my waist. The moment passes where he should have pulled them away if he was merely helping me find my footing, but now, he just holds on to me, clinging in fact. I hear his sharp intake of breath when I raise my hands and rest them on his chest. There’s an electric current running between us that I want to test. I step closer and there —it’s pure magic.

I sway against him and his hands circle around my lower back, drawing me completely flush against his hard body. I feel the ridge of his jeans press into my belly. His broad chest and strong arms hold me steady. Our hearts race as if trying to outcompete one another.

I tip my chin up in the dark and sense rather than see him lower his face toward me, but he doesn’t do it. He’s dangling the carrot just over my head.

LORD HAVE MERCY.

“Are you going to kiss me?” I whisper, sounding slightly awed by the idea of it. “If not, can I kiss you?”

Can I kiss Sawyer Garnett? It never seemed like a question I’d ever get to ask, but now he leans down and answers with his lips pressed against mine. Warmth spreads through my limbs like fire and the heat immediately envelops us. It’s been so long since I’ve kissed someone like this—with hungry, nearly desperate need—that I can’t pull myself away.

Our kiss in the vineyard the other night was fueled by wine, or so I convinced myself, but this is something else entirely. Our mouths open to each other. Sawyer’s arms band around me even tighter. He’s a boa constrictor, which makes me easy prey. Swallow me whole. See if I care.

Something crashes outside, a tin trash can lid banging against concrete.

“It’s just the neighbor’s cat,” I assure him, holding him close just in case he gets any ideas.

Trash can lid, nuclear war, Armageddon—who cares? I need this.

As far as making out is concerned, Sawyer knows what he’s doing. More so than Matthew. I know I shouldn’t be comparing the two in this moment, it’s just Sawyer is knocking me on my ass here and I want to sink my fingers into his hair and tug. I want to suggest we keep this party going on the floor of my mom’s kitchen, or propped up on her linoleum countertops, or pressed against her little farm animal needlepoint picture.

It’s ludicrous.

I smile as I pull back. “Stay focused. Cookies ,” I remind him.

He kisses me again, groans like he’s annoyed to break it off, and then steps back.

The separation almost does me in. Never mind, take me, here, NOW. I almost suggest it, but then I reach back, take hold of the countertop behind me, and try to get it together. I know if I let go, I’d sink down to the ground like a boneless blob.

“You okay?” I ask him through the darkness.

“No.”

Huskiness laces that word. I grin.

“And I know you aren’t either, so don’t even lie.”

“Don’t worry, if you could see me, I’m sure I look like I just put my finger in an electrical socket.”

“That good, huh?”

I’m too scared to answer, which in turn scares me even more. Fortunately, I know what’s behind me. The smell is impossible to ignore. Chocolate heaven awaits, and I turn around and feel for the stacks of Tupperware. I tug the lid off the top one, and the sweet smell of my mom’s chocolate chunk cookies is enough to make my eyes flutter.

“Here.” I hold a cookie out in the general direction of Sawyer’s mouth, and in the darkness, he bites down.

I yelp and then laugh. He didn’t bite my finger; he only nibbled it a little.

We each have two cookies, and then another. My stomach hurts, but Sawyer wants more. I’ve lost count of what number he’s on now.

“You’re going to be sick,” I warn.

“I can’t stop,” he says around a mouthful of cookie.

I feed him another one, kiss him, and taste the chocolate on his lips.

Suddenly bright light floods the room as someone flips the kitchen light switch. My eyes squeeze shut, and when I open them again, I see Queenie standing in the doorway dressed in a floor-length floral nightgown with a silk bonnet covering her infamous foam rollers. She’s worn the rollers and bonnet to sleep every night for as long as I can remember. They’re a good benchmark. If she ever forgot them, I’d have to assume an alien took possession of her body.

“What the hell are y’all doing in here?!” she demands with her hands on her hips.

Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are tugged together in annoyance. She’s definitely not amused by our late-night antics, and Sawyer must realize it.

“Hey Queenie, you sure look pretty in that little hat.”

His flattery eases her furrowed brows a bit, but it’s not enough to get us out of trouble. Maybe he should have complimented her nightgown too. She gets them two for twenty dollars down at Nichols, and she loves to brag about it.

But it’s too late for that; her finger comes up to wag at us. “Hope y’all enjoy baking because I needed every last one of those cookies for the bake sale tomorrow morning. I promised Stacey Wolfe twelve dozen.”

This is how Sawyer and I come to be baking cookies with Queenie at 1:30 in the morning. And she doesn’t let us sit back and watch either. We’re the ones mixing and scooping while she instructs us from the sidelines with her arms crossed. “You’ll need twice as many chocolate chunks as that if you expect them to be any good.”

Once we have a batch in the oven, Sawyer goes to lie down on the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. I think all those cookies have finally hit him.

I lean down to look in the oven, checking to see the cookies are baking right. The last thing I want to do is remake them again . Once I confirm they’re doing their thing, I notice Queenie watching me with a secret little smile.

“That boy’s smitten over you,” she whispers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Hate to break it to you, Queenie, but I have absolutely no clue.