Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series) by Persephone Autumn (best book club books .txt) 📕

“Kiss me like that and expect me to be able to function afterward.”

I press a soft, chaste kiss to her lips. “How can I not kiss you like you hold the other half of my soul?”

Her eyes flick open, her green irises shimmering in the fading light of the day. Darting back and forth between mine, her eyes expressive in their desire to know how we could both feel the way we do. We idle in the driveway another minute, the car vibrating beneath us, as so many things are said without a single word spoken. How is it I know everything she is thinking without her even telling me?

The answer is simple really. Cora is my home. She is the one place where I feel most at ease. The one person I can be myself around and never feel a sense of shame or reservation or judgment. She makes my breathing spike and my heart soar. And her fingers on me… her touch is lightning in my veins.

There is no other person I could imagine spending my life with. I may be only fifteen—almost sixteen—and less experienced with life, but this fact is etched in my bones. Carved since the day I was born. Not just for me, but for her as well.

After a moment, she drags in a breath and faces the steering wheel. “You ready?” she asks, her voice unsteady.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Rock music spills out of the speakers as we drive toward Indian Rocks Beach. For our one-year anniversary, we decided to go to a small Italian restaurant between the beach and intercoastal. Asian food is Cora’s version of crack, but she wanted to do something different tonight. And as many times as I told her we could go to our favorite Thai or Japanese restaurant, she gracefully suggested we go somewhere new.

To create a new memory for this milestone moment. A memory we will never forget. I wanted to tell her there is no way I would ever forget any minute involving her.

Pulling into the parking lot, she finds a space and parks. We get out of the car and it is the first time tonight I get the opportunity to see what she wears. Part of me is shocked, while another part of me is turned on.

For the first time ever, Cora is in a dress. Her usual denim bottoms and cotton graphic tee are nowhere to be found. But this dress suits her. In more ways than one. The fabric clings to her like a second skin, accentuating all the curves lying beneath. Curves I have touched, but not really seen altogether. Nestled in the black material are small shapes I can’t make out from where I stand. As I inch closer to her, looping her arm in mine, I see the shapes are cat faces. From afar, anyone could misconstrue them as polka dots. Her dress is the perfect mix of black, rock and Cora.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her, planting a kiss at her temple.

“Thank you. You’re looking pretty good yourself.”

To be honest, I feel underdressed next to her. In a pair of black jeans and a navy button-down with the cuffs rolled to my elbows, this is the most dressed up I have been since I was little and my mom dressed me for special occasions. It isn’t that I don’t look nice, but Cora is stunning.

The hostess walks us to our table, a flickering votive candle and a small vase holding two red roses rest in the center. Our server greets and informs us of the specials for the evening, then takes our drink orders and disappears. We are both silent as we look over the menu, my mouth watering at all the delicious options. In my periphery, I catch Cora setting her menu down.

“Do you know what you’re having?” I inquire.

“Yeah. I was tossed up between the spaghetti carbonara and the gnocchi a la Villa Gallace. They both sound amazing, but I think I’ll get the carbonara. You want to share the Caesar salad for two?”

“Caesar sounds good. I’m still on the fence. Lasagna or rigatoni Bolognese?” I look to her for guidance.

“Ooh, that’s a tough call,” she says, tapping a finger against her pushed out lips. “Layers or tubes, layers or tubes.” She bobs her head side to side as she tries to help me decide. “Tubes,” she exclaims. “That’s what I would choose.”

“Tubes for the win!” I belt out a little too loud, mouthing my apologies to the other patrons when they look at me. “Oops,” I whisper, both of us laughing with hands over our mouths.

Our server returns, setting our drinks and a basket of bread with garlic and herb oil on the table, then takes our order. When he walks away, we simply gaze at one another. In the time since Cora and I first met, we have learned we don’t need to fill time by talking about things that don’t hold value to us. We have a bond, a language all our own. Words don’t need to be spoken. We just know. I stretch my hand across the table and she places hers in mine. Connected. Everything is always better when we are connected.

Our dinner arrives and we dive right in. On the small bread plates, we each portion our dish and pass it to the other. As we eat, we talk about school and friends and our plans during the summer. When we finish, I pay the bill and we leave the restaurant.

Cora drives the car to a beach access parking lot on the other side of the two-lane street. This time of day is generally busy and it can be challenging to find a space, but we land one and make our way to the sand. Just before we step onto the beach, both of us slip our shoes off and carry them as we stroll onto