Two years, eleven months later
In Olive’s defense, the man didn’t seem to mind the kiss too much.
It did take him a moment to adjust—perfectly understandable, given the
sudden circumstances. It was an awkward, uncomfortable, somewhat painful
minute, in which Olive was simultaneously smashing her lips against his
and pushing herself as high as her toes would extend to keep her mouth
at the same level as his face. Did he have to be so tall?
The kiss must have looked like some clumsy headbutt, and she grew anxious
that she was not going to be able to pull the whole thing off.
Her friend Anh, whom Olive had spotted coming her way a few seconds ago,
was going to take one look at this and know at once that Olive and Kiss
Dude couldn’t possibly be two people in the middle of a date. Then that
agonizingly slow moment went by, and the kiss became . . . different.
The man inhaled sharply and inclined his head a tiny bit, making Olive
feel less like a squirrel monkey climbing a baobab tree, and his hands —
which were large and pleasantly warm in the AC of the hallway—closed around her waist.