Spring Fling (Dating Season Book 1) Laurelin Paige (best ereader for graphic novels .TXT) 📖

His hand lands on the small of my back and as he leads me inside, dating factoids pop like popcorn in my head.

Say his name to show I’m attentive and connected. Done.

Blush if he pays me a compliment. Not sure how to do that on command, but I’ll try.

He opens the door for me, and we cross the marble floor to the brunette at the counter that spans the back wall of glass. Behind her is a view of the rink, full of people whirling about like Olympians. Finn refuses to let me pay—aw—and we walk away with basic instructions and coupons to the onsite dining area. Once skated up, my worst fears are realized the moment my ass hits the cold hard ice. An “oomph” barrels out of me.

“Oh, shit,” Finn says, before bending down to help me stand from my sprawled position. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” If I’m not, I’m unaware because our bodies are now melded. I grip his hips for balance and his woodsy scent is amazing.

His brow furrows. “Can you handle a stick?”

I nod. So many pucking puns crawl up my tongue, but I keep them trapped inside my mouth.

“You sure?” His hands caress my shoulders. “We can go sit down.”

“I’m sure. My butt will recover.”

“Good to hear. It’s a very nice butt.” He winks.

And there it is. The blush. Blush is a demure word for what’s happening to my face. It feels as though I stuck my head in a five hundred degree kiln. Our instructor arrives and the moment is lost but not forgotten. It’s all I can think about as we volley the puck back and forth. Finn whizzes across the ice like a professional player, and by the time we finish our session, my thighs are screaming.

In the rink’s restaurant, we segue to the getting-to-know-you part of our date. On a scale of one to awkward, I’d give it a solid seven. Three points have been deducted because Finn was not captivated by the Hip Check sampler I ordered and there is just no ladylike way to eat buffalo wings or loaded nachos. Particularly as your date enjoys a grilled chicken salad. He tells me about his job as a personal trainer at a SuperFit gym and listens with rapt attention as I give him the lowdown on my Van Gogh pottery dreams.

“So,” Finn says, when we’re outside the arena, standing beside my car, “what now?”

His tongue shines his lips like gloss and as much as I’d like to disrobe in this parking lot, that darn dating tip article recommends against it. Sex before three dates gives a man the wrong idea.

“I have to wake early in the morning,” I say. “Pottery class. I should get going.”

He moves in closer. “I’d like to see you again.”

“I’d like that too.”

After we exchange phone numbers, he tilts my chin up and here it comes. He’s going to kiss me. I’m so ready for this, I close my eyes. Hold my breath. And then—

Our first kiss happens.

A gentlemanly brush of his lips on my forehead.

Huh. Don’t get me wrong, my forehead is feeling all kinds of things, but my lips are confused and jealous.

He opens my door and promises to call. Even if there was no lip action, as I drive away, I’d say it was a good date. Complete with butterflies and blushes. He’s swoony and cute, and most important, I only thought about Austin once.

Four

I think too much. It’s exhausting. Usually, I’m consumed with non-stressful thoughts of my next clay creation or diving down yet another rabbit hole of how things originated in history. But there’s been a breach. Ever since last night, I’ve analyzed every nook and cranny of why Finn didn’t kiss me on the lips.

Perhaps I had buffalo breath.

Something in my teeth. It happens to me more than I think it happens to other people.

If I consult my history books, there’s a slim chance the smooch didn’t happen because I never got around to exposing a wrist or ankle to confirm my interest in him and pique his in me.

It could be anything. Or it could be nothing. Whatever the reason, it’s messing with my mojo.

“Does my dinosaur look like a dog?” Louis asks.

I tilt my head and debate how to answer, ideally truthfully. “Well, dogs aren’t green, so no.”

He smiles and continues dolloping paint on his bowl.

As I check on the other painters, Andrea, my co-worker, enters the room with a Cheshire Cat grin on her face. “Chloe, someone is here to see you. I’ll take over.”

She doesn’t respond to my quizzical eyebrow raise, so I let the class know I’ll be back soon. I trod to the front of the store where a few customers sift through clearance items. Behind them, I spot my visitor, shrouded in a ray of sunshine, by the art supplies.

“Hey, babe,” Finn says.

“Hi…” My body doesn’t know how to react to his unexpected visit. The way he said “babe” did things to me in a heart-thumping way, but I’m also not good with surprises. It’s like having one nipple hard, and one not.

“You look cute,” he says, when I close the distance between us.

I beam at his compliment, even if it’s generous. My hair is in a rough-shod bun and the paint-smeared apron over my leggings and tunic top is not what I would’ve chosen had I known he was going to show up here today. He, on the other hand, looks exquisite in dark jeans and a blue polo.

“Thank you.” I toy with the string wrapped around my waist as we smile at each other. “So...what are you doing here?”

“I want to take you to dinner.”

“Oh. Today?”

“Yeah.” He picks up a paintbrush from the shelf and fans it back and forth across his palm. “What time do you get off?”

His question sounds sexual but maybe I’m projecting. “I don’t get off until four.”

“Perfect. Text me your address.” He tucks a wayward strand of hair