"I don't mean to freak you out," I reassured him quickly, averting my face to give him some privacy.
"You don't have to do anything about it. I just didn't want another minute to go by without you knowing how I feel. You can tuck it away now."
One of his hands gripped my nape, the other dug almost painfully into my waist. James held me there, immobile, locked against him as if I might blow away.
His breathing was ragged, his heartbeat pounding. He didn't say another word the rest of the ride to work, but he didn't let me go either.
I planned on telling him again one day in the future, but as far as first times went, I thought we'd both done okay.
At ten o'clock sharp, I had two dozen long-stemmed red roses delivered to James's office with the note: In celebration of red dresses and limo rides.
Ten minutes later, I received an interoffice envelope with a notecard that reads:
Let's do that again. Soon.
