Her heart seems to flutter up into her throat again, trapped. It's like every joint in her body is stubbornly rooted in place the second he leans in, and her protest when he moves her beer away never makes it out of her mouth.

It could, and it doesn't. It's almost a fully conscious decision.

Almost.

What is fully conscious is how her face turns toward him, the gradual parting of her lips against his, the choice she makes to keep her hands to herself but to kiss him until her lips feel like they're buzzing, until he's the one to back off.

She eyes him. "You trying to distract me?"

He used to answer her questions with smart-ass remarks or questions of his own. Now he's answering by moving in for a kiss.