He glares and chases me up the path.
This Saturday afternoon, “the last summer day,” Jack predicts, we’ve all left our usual haunts behind. Jack even convinced me not to bring my laptop, even though there’s an analytical essay I should really get started on. We all drove down to a miniscule coastal town (really, “town” is a lie, it’s little more than a handful of shops and houses) near Brighton, and hiked up a trail along the beach, to a small cliff overlooking the choppy September sea.
This is a day off, completely, a day for all of us to relax.
Relax, regroup, and finally meet Mary Kate’s mysterious beau, too. We’ve only had a handful of conversations with this Malcolm, but so far he strikes me as quiet, serious, and completely devoted to her. So, as her resident BFF, I suppose I provisionally approve, given his good behavior continues in this vein.
“Can I at least get a hint?” Jack catches my eye, and with the late afternoon sun flashing in his eyes, that shock of hair falling across his forehead again in the way that drives me crazy (in a good way), all I can think, yet again, for the hundredth time since I stepped off the plane from Philadelphia back here again a month ago, is how did I get so lucky?
“Nope.” I smirk, though I at least stop to let him catch up. When he reaches my side, his hand runs through my hair, just before he draws me into another kiss, a slow, deep kiss that melts me from the inside out. “You’re a jerk, Harper Reed. A beautiful, amazing, wonderful jerk.”
I grin at him as we join hands and trail after our friends, up the path toward the picnic I’m sure they’ve already unveiled. “You’re not so bad yourself, Professor.”