The First Kiss: HarperImpulse Mobile Shorts

Contents

Brigid Coady

The First Kiss

Love Romance?

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Brigid Coady

I was born in the UK but raised round the world and spent most of my childhood with my nose in a book. When I was seven I wrote my first proper story about a magic puddle that flipped up to reveal a secret world underground.

I’m now a non-practicing engineer who works in project management. I write romance and young adult stories. I’ve been a voice-over and radio continuity artist. I love country music and used to have my own radio show. My boyfriend says I have an unhealthy obsession with Kenny Chesney. I live in London

The First Kiss

“Hi.”

I jumped. Although I’d been willing him to turn up, he’d managed to sneak up on me. I had been looking out for him, turning enough slow circles to wear a hole in the floor of Victoria station for the past twenty minutes. Somehow he’d gotten passed me.

“Hi.” My voice squeaked. I wasn’t prepared. I gulped down some air, feeling lightheaded. He was actually here.

We stood staring at each other, his face reddening at the same rate that I could feel mine heating up. I dropped my eyes and stared at the ground at my black Vans and his red Converse. His large man boy feet, almost too big for his body.

This was our first date.

This was my first ever date. No, I definitely wasn’t prepared.

I took a quick peek up at him to find he’d done the same. Our eyes met, I grew hotter and quickly stared again at his feet. The rubber caps had black marks on them and white, almost frayed holes where his little toes had rubbed against the canvas.

They were the same shoes he’d worn at the dance. He’d trod on my feet as we bounced and pogoed in the uncool corner of the hall. Then breathlessly apologised before grabbing my hands and pulling me with him. He told me that his name was Tom and instead of being upset that my toes had been crushed, I loved his silliness, his geekiness and his mop of dark blond corkscrew curls.

And when the songs slowed, our chests heaving from exertions and my feet throbbing, he dragged me limping outside where he showed me the constellations.

Later, as he waited to board the bus back to his all boys’ boarding school from my all girls’ one, he took my hand and squeezed it.

“See you on Facebook,” he said, smiling a broad, cheeky smile. My heart flipped.

“I see someone pulled,” the snide comment came from behind me as soon as the bus drove off. It was the first of many comments from people who’d seen us go outside. I neither confirmed nor denied, instead I dodged and dissembled. In one night I’d gone from insignificant nerd who’d known nothing about boys to someone vaguely interesting.

When he friended me on Facebook, started sharing silly videos and commenting on my photos, I dared to hope. Staring at his photos, memorising his smile, the way his curls crackled with his energy, I wondered what it would be like to be kissed by him. To have my first kiss.

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