First-Time Caller (Heartstrings, #1)

by B.K. Borison

“It’s convenient how you remember we’re friends when you’re trying to wiggle out of something.” “I’m not wiggling,” I mutter, petulant.

I want to feel something when I connect with someone. I want sparks. The good kind, you know? I want to laugh and mean it. I want goose bumps. I want to wonder what my date is thinking about and hope it might be me. I want…I want the magic.”

“But what’s wrong with being a romantic? I can be a confident, independent woman and still want someone to hold my hand. To ask about my day. It’s a good thing to want passion and excitement and care. Attention and affection. I don’t want to settle for anything less than that.

Caller: I want to believe in it, you know? That there’s something—someone—out there waiting for me. But it can be hard. Sometimes I lose hope.

Is it possible to die from the feel of a woman’s thighs? Maybe. It certainly feels like a possibility right now.

I curl my other hand around her rib cage. “Tell me to stop,” I whisper. Her hands fist in my sweatshirt, twisting. “Absolutely not,” she whispers back.

The conversation has been steered carefully away from any mention of what happened Wednesday night at the station, but it doesn’t stop the cascade of hazy, hot memories every time I see his name pop up on my phone.

“You are comically distressed about the pineapple pizza.” “Because it’s embarrassing.” “It’s not.” Her smile spreads wider. “It’s adorable.” “Please stop calling me adorable.” “Cute,” she adds. I groan and collapse back to my side of the bench seat.