Julian Caine kissed me.

Breathtaking. Toe-curling. Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. I could die now kind of kiss. And I want more.

More.

It takes everything in me not to beg him to stay. It takes everything in me not to run after him. It takes everything in me not to scream, “Come back!” I watch him walk away with his head bowed down and both hands in his jeans pockets as sprinkles of rain continue to fall. Why would you leave me after such a kiss? I know he must have felt something. How could he not?

Frozen in place, I remain in front of my building in a stupor when specks of raindrops immediately become torrential. And although I love the feel of rain when it hits my fingertips, I force myself to seek shelter.

Striding up the stairs that will lead me home, my heart races at a frenetic pace and my mind runs in circles.

Julian Caine kissed me. Julian Caine kissed me.

I lick my lips, hoping to taste him again.

And by the grace of God, I can still taste him.

Standing in front of my tall entry door as it stares at me, my body refuses to move. I touch my swollen lips again, tracing them from side to side with my forefinger.

The man I’ve desired for weeks kissed me.

My lips are raw from one kiss; they still tingle, and I can still feel his lips on mine.

Still mesmerized by that unforgettable kiss, I cannot help my trembling hands, and it takes a while to unlock my door. The way he left me with a look of regret makes me believe the kiss was a mistake−a mistake on Julian’s part. Or was it a mistake on my part? I touch my lips again, desiring to feel his against mine again.

Who are you trying to fool? You’ve wanted him to kiss you for weeks.

My sofa beckons me, and without hesitation, I plop myself down, glancing at the window directly across from the couch. He kissed me! To stop myself from overthinking what just happened, I resort to one of my favorite pastimes … people watching.

Stop thinking about the kiss, I chide myself.

I stare outside, and it feels wonderful to be home. It was the first place my parents lived together; it was the place I was conceived, and it is a place that holds dear memories of my father.

Situated on LaGuardia Place, my father told me it was a dream come true finding the building and renovating the apartment into our home. The warehouse had been a full-frame factory building with black ceilings. Gutting the place, he turned it into loft with twenty-one windows. With a great room out front, the three bedrooms are situated in the back for privacy. The day he purchased the building was also the day he met my mother. I had grown up in this loft and lived here until his death. My mother’s artwork hangs proudly throughout my home.

Planted in front of a large floor-to-ceiling window, I can still see pedestrians making their way up and down LaGuardia Place even with the pouring rain. Occupying the fourth floor allows me to enjoy the views that expand all the way to Mercer Street. Moreover, the view overlooks the famous LaGuardia statue. Before Roger permanently moved in several years ago, I lived here alone during college vacations. The remaining apartments below have been rented to the same two families since I was a kid. Although as a teenager I lived on the Upper East Side with my grandparents, I kept this particular apartment unoccupied.

Directly across from my building is a five-acre garden. Brilliantly designed by an American-Japanese architect, it is a haven unknown to so many New Yorkers. It’s a quiet oasis smacked right in the heart of one of the world’s busiest cities. Although it is only around the corner from Bleecker Street, the park is sometimes empty during the times I have sat on a stone bench to collect my thoughts. However, there is an elderly couple that visits the park daily at three p.m. Disappointment hits me; I won’t see them today because of the rain. The park is virtually deserted with the exception of a man dressed in a dark brown trench coat, sitting on one of the benches, holding a bouquet. He raises his head and stares directly up at my building. Heavy rain prevents me from making out his face.

I continue to watch the view before me. NYU students run with their heads covered by their backpacks. Vehicles travel along north and south of LaGuardia Place. And the man I had been staring at for the past few minutes rises from his seat and leaves the park while the bouquet remains on the bench.

Peeking at the clock, I’ve been observing the outside world for more than an hour. What is Julian doing now? Is he thinking of me? Why would he leave me the way he did? Surprisingly, my fingers continue to trace my lips. I close my eyes, remembering his lips against mine. It was one kiss. I’ve had thousands of kisses from my former fiancé. But my lips are still tingling. My mind is still dizzy. My heart is still rapidly beating.

My phone buzzes, and a text from the man who kissed me not too long ago appears.

JULIAN: I shouldn’t have kissed you. You’re not ready.

Ready?

My body is on fire with him even though he’s only kissed me once. My heart … a small part of my heart still belongs to a man who let me go so easily.

It was just a kiss.

My fingers hover the keyboard as my mind tries to form some sort of response. What exactly am I not ready for?

At this moment, I want to cross the friendship line. Yes, I’ve just left my fiancé, and my heart is still broken. But the inexplicable pull Julian has on me is something I can’t deny. I don’t want to deny it. Courage comes over me, pushing inhibition aside.

ME: I’m a big girl.

JULIAN: Have a good night, darling.

Why am I disheartened and disappointed by Julian’s response?

“Because that one kiss had eradicated all the kisses I’ve ever had before,” I say quietly, admitting the truth to no one but myself.