Sugar McKenzie and August Wakefield couldn't be more different - Sugar, a meticulous, caring, but lonely paramedic and August, a charming former reality star still chasing his dream. But they've both closed themselves off emotionally from others...t...
"I think it takes a lot of confidence to be comfortable in being vulnerable."
- Ciara
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I had no idea what I was doing. Quite literally. I had few experiences within my twenty-four years on this earth that involved kissing, hand holding, and extra intimate mannerisms. Does one tilt their head? Tongue or no? Hands ran through hair? Stand on tip-toes? Just do it!
I know how to do this! So, what if it's been awhile . . . close to four years. It's like swimming, hold your breath, move be in the moment. And hope for the best!
I stood up, waited for August to turn around. To kiss. And well, I did it! I felt his lips. Warmth from his cheeks, our noses next to each other.
But gosh! I seemed frozen.
This was awkward.
Crap! I'm doing it all wrong. He's going to pull away. I'm wrong so so so wrong.
His thumb grazed my cheek. He started to move his face.
I was right. He doesn't think of me like – I overstepped the boundary.
I moved too. Backwards. Away.
All the while, August leaned forward, trying to advance the kiss. His forehead bumped against the side of my head. Fast and heavy . . . since I thought he was moving the opposite way.
"Ah!" I rubbed on the left side of my head.
"Ope," August replied. Bone on bone. Skin on skin. His hand began to massage his forehead. Redness glowed blossoming like a hidden secret becoming known.
"I'm sorry," I stated out of reflex. Ignoring my own short pain, I leaned closer to August. My fingers touched his forehead, hovering over the area in a gentle tap. He winced.
I jumped at his reaction.
August laughed. "It's okay."
"No, it's not. Where are your ice packs – or frozen veggies –"
While I was talking, I turned left to right in the same spot. My body wanted to fix the situation, go do something, however my mind tumbled over all the thoughts making me incoherent. Where was the paramedic, who had trained for twenty-four hours to respond and be avidly attentive in the face of conflict. People screaming, knowing what questions to ask to retrieve vital information. Blood, sickness, emergency. And here I stood. Paralyzed. I couldn't help a small bump injury . . . because I caused it? Or was it because of who it was?
August's tender touch made me flinch, it was a brief warmth, as he tapped me on the shoulder. His hand opened and held out for me to choose.
"Sugar," August said, "I'm okay. It was a little bump. How's yours? I think you got it worse since you were on the receiving end."
