A Girl Like You by vinnie Kinsella (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

got on his knees to rub her neck. Then he stood up and leaned in to kiss me.

I kissed him right back, standing there in my kitchen.

“You taste good,” he said, brushing my hair off my shoulder.

“Just brushed my teeth,” I said, feeling foolish. What kind of ice-breaker was that?

We hurried down the porch in the winter wind. Hudson opened the Jeep door for me as I attempted to climb in gracefully, wearing a fitted skirt.

“Is it warm enough in here for you?” Hudson said, sounding worried.

“It’s great.”

Hudson drove to one of those ridiculously romantic restaurants with votive candles on glass-top tables and a brick fireplace with orange and blue flames. We rushed in from the cold.

He came over to pull out my chair and I pretended I’d known he was going to, even though it was the first time in my life any man had done that. The server had placed a menu in front of a seat across the table, but Hudson slid into the chair directly next to mine.

“I don’t want to be too far away from you,” he said, briefly squeezing my hand, which I prayed wasn’t sweaty.

Over shrimp scampi, light on the garlic, I told Hudson about Madison and Ian and their dating experiences, and he told me about his family. Two of his sons were single, the oldest married with the new baby.

“She’s incredible,” he said about baby Emma. “Every time I see her, she’s a new person.”

“Do you see her a lot?”

“Not as much as I’d like, but I’m hoping to get babysitting duty when she’s a bit older,” he said, smiling.

I cleared my throat. “Speaking of a bit older, I’m, well I’m actually a couple years older than I listed on my profile.”

Hudson wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin.

“OK. How much older?”

“Ah, eight years.”

“OK. So that makes you—”

“Fifty-seven,” I said, my face burning.

“Huh.”

I drank a sip of my water, waiting.

“All right,” he said at last. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

“I sometimes eat Cheetos,” I blurted out.

Thankfully, he laughed. The awful moment was over. “So, do you like this restaurant?”

“I love it,” I said, and he slid his hand over to squeeze mine.

Our server stayed discreetly away from our table except to refill our Pinot Grigio.

I’d promised Madison I would text from the ladies’ room, but couldn’t bear to leave the table and miss a chance that he might hold my hand again. Two hours later, we walked through the dark parking lot to his Jeep. Hudson opened the door for me. I got in ungracefully and reflexively put on my seatbelt.

Hudson got in the driver’s side, started up the engine. and turned on the heat. Then, smiling, he reached over decisively to unclasp my seatbelt and pull me to him. His kisses were maddeningly slow, making me lean into him as if I’d never been kissed in a Jeep before after three glasses of Pinot. OK, so I hadn’t. Then he turned his face, angling his mouth firmly on mine, and I pressed hard against him. My hands found their way into his wild swath of hair—no sticky products, so the waves were natural. YAY!

Hudson gathered up a handful of my hair, pulling it gently to expose my neck, which he covered with kisses, nibbling at my skin. I felt a moan forming in my throat, but managed to turn it into a sigh at the last minute. He toyed with the edge of my skirt, and I fought the urge to open my knees. I also fought the need to pee, wishing frantically I’d made that trip to the restaurant bathroom. The top buttons on his polo shirt were open just enough for me to slide in one hand and brush his chest with my fingers.

“I don’t have sex on the first date,” I said, breathing in the clean smell of his neck.

“Neither do I,” he laughed. “And I don’t have sex in cars, either.”

“Or in parking lots.”

“Agreed,” he said, kissing me again.

But when he gently pushed my legs open and slipped fingers inside my panties to my very wet place, I rethought that rule and considered asking him back to my house. His teasing fingers didn’t stay in me long enough. It would be a vibrator night when I got home.

62

Two days later, Friday night, Hudson picked me up at my house in an equally clean red Ford truck.

“I missed you,” he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing me, even though it had only been 48 hours. We drove silently the ten minutes to his house. I tried not to fidget.

When we turned left onto his property, I sat up straight in disbelief. It was incredible. He had a restored farmhouse on grassy fields as far as I could see. There was an orange plow at the end of the winding driveway, and a shed that exactly matched the house. Parked behind it was a tractor.

His little terrier Chloe sprang up to greet us when we went in Hudson’s house. I openly gaped at the enormous kitchen, spotlessly clean, the high ceiling over the living room with its stone fireplace, the cherrywood end tables and curved couch that looked like tapestry. Even the travel magazines on his coffee table were fanned out to perfection. There were two graceful elephants carved out of some kind of fancy wood standing in one corner, and a waist-high sculpture of a seashell in the entry to the kitchen.

“Sorry if it’s a mess,” Hudson said, plumping a gold-tasseled pillow.

Through another set of archways, I could see a cozy den with another fireplace. On the far wall was a formal oil painting of Chloe, looking very regal, especially for a dog. I tried to guess in my mind the cost of a portrait that size and came up blank. Hmm. But no family photos?

The only thing that made the room look remotely lived-in was a fleece blanket on the black leather chair, but a moment later, Chloe took a running