That's How it Happens

34. Timing is Everything

The pub was quieter than the club, but Ainsley's head still throbbed with bass and booze. There were no flashing lights here, but her eyes squinted under the dim light. Peter sat across from her, easy smile in place, talking about something – work, maybe? – but she couldn't focus. Her lips still tingled.

That kiss.

Ainsley couldn't shake the kiss. It clung to her like perfume, dizzying and familiar, as if she'd lived it before. The way his mouth resisted, then yielded. The way her whole body had recognized something her brain couldn't name.

Her pulse hadn't slowed since she'd pulled the mask away and seen him. The masked man wasn't a stranger. It was him. It had always been him – the mystery kisser who had haunted her since that night, the one she'd tried to rationalize away.

Her mind spun, but her body knew the truth: she didn't want safe. She didn't want simple. She wanted him.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked for what felt like the hundredth time. "He covered her hand on the table. "I promise you, no one will find us here."

He smiled.

"I have to admit. These past few weeks playing this hiding game have been..." stressful? Tense? Emotionally overbearing? "Exhilarating."

She smiled. At least she hoped it was a smile. He sat across from her, expectant, kind, familiar. He wanted her to make a decision, but he was stalling... for her. Or maybe he thought she had already said yes. Did he?

She hated this – she wasn't used to being the one who turned someone down. As April put it, she was the one who was used to the dumping. She hated disappointing people. So she nodded, smiled, let him talk about the project – apparently, Mr. Gold was happy with what she had so far – about Liv's wedding, about anything that wasn't the storm in her chest.

She stirred her drink, forcing herself to meet his eyes. He deserved honesty. He deserved more than her half-hearted attention. But the words stuck in her throat. How did you tell someone they weren't the one without breaking something fragile? ... twice.

Except he did it first.

So she stalled. She laughed at the right moments, asked polite questions, found a way to pull her hand away nonchalantly, all while her mind replayed the kiss, over and over, until she thought she might drown in it.

Leo sat on the edge of the bed, cape still draped over the chair, mask tossed aside. He dragged a hand through his hair, replaying the moment until it hurt.

He hadn't been expecting it. He'd been playing along with a dare, nothing more – a stupid stunt, a laugh. He had no idea – they had no idea that the girls were in the club. And then someone had grabbed him, kissed him.

At first, he froze, scared out of his mind that he was being accosted again – he kind of was. But then – her scent, her lips, the way she moved against him – he didn't need to open his eyes to know. So, he did what any person would do – he opened an eye to check. It was Ainsley. Of course it was.

The world had tilted into place.

Until he couldn't find her again. She had pulled away, whispered a question like it was an accusation – like she hadn't expected it to be him. He didn't chase her; he didn't bother telling the guys. He watched as she slipped her phone from her bag. And when he saw her slip out of the club after, unnoticed by the others, his chest tightened. She hadn't run from the noise or the crowd – not even Liv. She'd run from him.

And why? She kissed him. What was she doing kissing a masked stranger for anyway?

The gate was locked. Of course it was. And of course this flimsy scrap of fabric the designer dared to call a dress had nowhere to stash the remote.