“Kidding,” he said, laughing. “Well, sorta, you know.”

We finally sat down in my car and my legs thanked me a hundred times. Did he really want to kiss me?

"What kind of music do you play?" I asked as I turned the car on.

"It's hard to classify." His tone suggested that he didn’t want to talk about his band for some reason.

So, I shifted subjects. "What do you listen to?"

He jumped at the bait. "A lot, but mostly classic rock, blues, that sorta thing."

That fit him.

"I've pulled the hotel address up on my phone here," he said. "I'll tell you where to turn."

"I'll just head back toward the airport and you tell me when it says to do something different. I think I remember where it is."

"It's been nice." He turned his face toward the window. "A bit strange, I suppose, but it has been nice, hasn't it? Today, I mean."

"Strange and nice about covers it."

I stopped at a red light and danced my fingers along the steering wheel. He took my hand into his and pulled me toward him.

"Jane, I'm sorry, but I really do want to kiss you right now."

I pulled back and exhaled when I saw the light turn green. Foot on the pedal, I accelerated the car and tried to slow down my pulse. I would not, could not, kiss him.

Dr. Seuss, anyone?

Eyes on the road, I felt his gaze burning a hole into my head, but it most certainly would not burn a hole into my heart. Trees on the side of the road, fading sun to my right, two solid yellow lines—focus, Jane, focus.

"I'm not asking to be your boyfriend. Just a kiss, like the others." He rubbed his legs and looked from the window back to me. "I know it can't work, but I ... I don't know ... do you know what I mean?"

"Alistair." I shook my head. "It's not you. I know you're not some whacko trying to get in my pants. I guess there's always that chance, I mean, I don't know you very well. You could be a whacko and I really hope not, but I'm ... I can't kiss you."

"It's trousers."

"What?"

"I believe you meant trousers, not pants. Although you could very well mean pants too." He stopped and looked at me. "I'm not in love with you."

I laughed.

He smiled. "There's something between us though. I know you feel it."

"It's not real, Alistair. It's just our emotions eating us alive. British boy and American girl meet in an airport, spend the day together, and by the end of the day they've fallen in love." I glanced at him, expecting a smile but he looked as serious as possible. "It has all the necessary elements of a sweeping romance, but it's our emotions. It can't be anything more. It's not possible to fall for someone when you've only just met."

"A relationship has to start somewhere," he said and pointed. "Turn there. Not saying this should be a relationship, but it's something, don't you think? There's something here."

"What's the point?" I nodded toward the road. "Which way do I go?"

"Left and then it's there on the right. Days Inn." He ran his hand along the open window. "What's the point in anything?"

I laughed. "That's vague."

"The point is I want to kiss you. You said we have a choice. Well, I’m making a choice for once. A choice for myself. I may not love you or know you inside and out, but when I watch your lips move I want to kiss you. What would it hurt?"

"It's weird."

He laughed. "It is a bit queer, that's true." He repositioned in the seat and unbuckled himself. "Still doesn't change the fact that I want to kiss you before I leave. I won't ever see you again and the least I could give you for your birthday is the best kiss you've ever had in your life."

I shot a stunned look at him only to find him leaning toward me with exaggerated and dorky puckered lips. Laughing, I parked the car and left it on. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture with full cannons played quietly in the background. I bet he didn't notice, but I did. Quite dramatic for the moment, but I thought it was funny so I left it on.

I glanced in the backseat at the box Donovan gave me. The box that would explain one of the many reasons why I am the way I am. Why I developed my precautions. I couldn't wait to go home and open it, as much as it scared me, but for now I needed to send off a sweet boy without the kiss he so wanted.

The kiss I half wanted.

“One minute,” he said, pulling out a scrap of paper, tearing it in half, and grabbing a pen. He cupped his hand over the words and wrote something way too long to be a phone number, email address, or even mailing address.

Intrigued, I tried to peek, but he glanced at me, pretending to be agitated but failing. He leaned back against the door so that I couldn’t possible see what he wrote on the paper hidden by his hand. I tried and he flashed me a few grins. He obviously liked tormenting me with his mysterious ways. Finally, he finished writing and ran his fingers through his hair and ... okay, maybe I sixty-five percent wanted to kiss him.

The distance tempted me. No last names, phone numbers, or addresses. No strings. No attachments. No arguments and jealousy and break ups.

Just a kiss. A once and done kiss.

Couldn't hurt, right?

"You're thinking about it," he said. "I can tell. My winsome accent has won you over."

"Right." I laughed. "Winsome, all right. Speaking of accents, what do British people think of American accents?"

"Everyone always asks this."

"And?"

"We don't think about it the same way American's do." He held my hand again. "So..."

"This is so strange! I can't kiss you when you ask. It's weird, awkward ... queer."

He smiled. "You really don't want to?"

"I do and I don't."

He inched toward me until his breath touched my neck. Funny how warmth can send chills down your body. I closed my eyes, allowing the heated shivers to cover me. His breath smelled like spearmint and if he moved closer to my lips I wouldn’t be able to deny tasting him.

I opened my eyes as he kissed my cheek.

"Was that okay?" he said.

I nodded, now eighty-nine percent wanting his kiss.

"Well." He opened the door and swung one leg out. "Thank you for entertaining me today. It's been a day of all sorts, and you've made it a bit less dreadful." He swung the other leg out. "And happy birthday."

The cannons erupted at the end of 1812 Overture and I nearly jumped out of my seat. Hilarious timing. A quizzical look appeared in his eyes as the end of the song burst forth. I shrugged. He smiled and stood outside of the car.

I liked that he didn't force himself on me. And I liked that he didn't give me his phone number or email address or even try to draw out the conversation to stay in my car longer. I liked it so much I wanted him to stay.

"Thank you," I said as he shut the door.

He leaned into the window, smiled, and held my gaze for what felt like minutes. Then he tapped the door and walked away, disappearing behind glass doors without so much as a nod back in my direction. His hands-in-the-pocket stride carried him out of sight. Out of my life.

My pulse should have slowed, but it quickened again.

And so that's it....

I almost—not quite almost, but almost almost—went after him for that kiss, but More Reasonable Me said, “No, let it go. It was nothing more than an interesting afternoon and now it’s time to go back to normal life.”