From Mishap to Kisshap: Rachel & Leila

Chapter 1 — Did That Just Happen? “Careful—” The warning came too late. Rachel, the wedding photographer, stepped backward while aiming her camera toward the dance floor, caught one heel on the edge of the marble, and suddenly went sideways. A woman in a dark green bridesmaid’s dress lunged forward and caught her. And the camera. “Oh!” one of the guests gasped. Her husband laughed. “That was close.” Rachel was half in the bridesmaid’s arms, one hand gripping her shoulder, staring up at her as if she had forgotten there were another two hundred people in the room. The bridesmaid said something. Rachel laughed. Then she tried to step away and immediately winced. “She hurt herself,” the woman at the table said. The bridesmaid put an arm around Rachel and helped her toward the terrace. “Well,” her husband said, watching them go, “she certainly found the right person to fall on.” Ten minutes later the same couple saw them outside beneath the terrace lights. Rachel was standing now. The bridesmaid still had her hand. Neither seemed particularly interested in letting go. “Are they—” Rachel leaned forward. The bridesmaid met her halfway. They kissed. The woman at the table stared. Her husband slowly lowered his champagne glass. “Well,” he said. She elbowed him. “I was going to say that escalated quickly.” “They met ten minutes ago.” “Apparently ten minutes was enough.” Outside, the two women kissed again. Chapter 2 — Rachel I knew I was falling before I actually fell, and my first thought was not my ankle . It was my camera . Then somebody caught both of us. I looked up and forgot about the camera. She had dark eyes, dark curls, a green bridesmaid’s dress, and one hand firmly around my waist. “Are you okay?” For several seconds I genuinely did not know. “I think so.” Then I tried standing. Bad idea. She caught me again. “That is not an ‘I think so’ face.” I laughed because she was right and because she was beautiful and because suddenly I was embarrassingly aware of exactly where her hand was. “I’m Rachel.” “Leila.” Of course she had a beautiful name too. She helped me outside, sat me down, checked my ankle, and stayed even after it was obvious nothing was seriously wrong. That was when I knew she felt it too. Because she kept looking at me. Not politely. Not casually. Looking. I finally stood. She offered her hand. I took it. Neither of us let go. “I should probably get back to work,” I said. “Probably.” “But I don’t really want to.” Her smile changed. “Good.” That was all I needed. I touched her cheek and kissed her. The strange thing was how completely natural it felt, as though falling into her arms had merely skipped several steps we apparently had not needed. When we separated, she was still smiling. Then she kissed me again. My ankle hurt. I did not care. Chapter 3 — Leila I had noticed her before she fell. That part she did not know. I had watched the photographer moving through the reception for almost half an hour, quietly thinking she was gorgeous and equally quietly telling myself not to be ridiculous. Then I saw her heel catch. I moved before I thought. One hand grabbed the camera. The other caught her around the waist. And then she looked at me. That was the real mishap. Because suddenly I was holding this beautiful blonde stranger and thinking, Oh no. Not because she was hurt. Because I wanted her. “Are you okay?” She tried telling me she was. Her face immediately proved otherwise. I helped her outside, partly because she needed help and partly because I wanted an excuse to stay with her. I liked everything about her almost instantly—her dry humor, the way she worried more about her camera than herself, the embarrassed little smile she gave me whenever she caught me staring. And I was staring. So was she. When she finally stood, I gave her my hand. She kept holding it. That was when my heart started pounding. “I should probably get back to work,” she said. “Probably.” “But I don’t really want to.” I remember thinking: Please don't. Instead I said, “Good.” Then her fingers touched my cheek. She paused. Just enough to ask without words. I leaned toward her. Rachel kissed me. Softly at first. Almost carefully. Then I kissed her back. When we separated, she looked stunned by what we had just done. I probably looked exactly the same. So I kissed her again. After all, if a woman literally falls into your arms and turns out to be the woman you have been watching all evening, ignoring that seems almost rude.