flakes. As pretty a night, Mac realized, as you could ask for in January. And she’d have missed it if he hadn’t come by, and insisted—in his low-key way—that she take a walk.
“At this point, I feel like I should say I don’t make a habit of tossing back multiple glasses of wine before sundown. Usually I’d have channelled the frustration into work or I’d have gone over and dumped on Parker and company. I was too mad for either. And I didn’t feel like ice cream, which is also a personal crutch in trying times.”
“I figured that out, except for the ice cream. My mother makes soup when she’s really upset or seriously mad. Big pots of soup. I’ve eaten a great deal of soup in my life.”
“Nobody really cooks around here but Laurel and Mrs. G.”
“Mrs. G. Mrs. Grady? Is she still here? I didn’t see her today.”
“Still here, still running the place and everybody in it. Thank God for it. She’s on her annual winter vacation. She goes to St. Martin’s on January first, like clockwork, and stays until April. As usual, she made a freezer full of casseroles, soups, stews, and so on before she left so none of us would starve in the event of a blizzard or nuclear war.”
She stopped by her front door, cocked her head at him again. “It’s been a day. You held up, Professor.”
“It had some interesting moments. Oh, Sherry’s going for Number Three, with buffet.”
“Good choice. Thanks for the walk, and the ear.”
“I like to walk.” He pushed his hands in his pockets since he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I’d better get going because driving in it’s a little trickier. And . . . school night.”
“School night,” she repeated and smiled.
Then she laid her pocket-warmed hands on his cheeks, brushed her lips to his in a light, friendly, close to sisterly kiss.
He blanked. He moved before he thought, acted before he checked. He took her shoulders, pulled her in—pressed her back to the door as he took the simple brush of lips into the long and the dark.
What he’d imagined at seventeen plunged into reality at thirty. The taste of her, the feel . That moment of lips and tongue, and the heat rising in the blood. In the quiet of snowfall, that elemental hush, the sound of her breath sighing out broke in his mind like thunder.
A storm gathering.
She didn’t nudge him back, push him away, protest his shoving open the door of her friendly gesture into the hot and wild. Her first thought was, who knew? Who knew the nice-guy English professor who walked into walls could kiss like this?
Like he planned to drag you off into the nearest cave and rip off your clothes, while you eagerly ripped off his.
Then thinking stopped being an option, and all she could do was try to keep up.
Swept away. She’d never actually believed that one, but this was swept away.
Her hands slid up from his face, forked through his hair. Gripped.
The movement slapped him back. Now he did step away, nearly slipping on the snow that covered the path. She didn’t move an inch, but stared out at him from eyes that gleamed in the dark.
God, he thought, God. He’d lost his mind.
“I’m sorry.” He fumbled it as arousal and mortification warred inside him. “Sorry. That was—wasn’t—Just . . . really sorry.”
She continued to stare as he hurried away, his strides made awkward by the fresh fall of snow. She heard, somewhere in the roaring in her head, the beep of his key lock, and watched him climb into his car in the overhead light after he wrenched open the door.
He pulled out before she got her breath and her voice back. As he drove away, she managed a weak, “No problem.”
Feeling a lot more buzzed than she had on wine, she let herself into the house. She went to the kitchen, poured his untouched wine down the sink, followed it with what was left in hers. After looking blindly around, she turned, leaned back on the counter.
“Wow,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
S OME MORNINGS YOU JUST
“At this point, I feel like I should say I don’t make a habit of tossing back multiple glasses of wine before sundown. Usually I’d have channelled the frustration into work or I’d have gone over and dumped on Parker and company. I was too mad for either. And I didn’t feel like ice cream, which is also a personal crutch in trying times.”
“I figured that out, except for the ice cream. My mother makes soup when she’s really upset or seriously mad. Big pots of soup. I’ve eaten a great deal of soup in my life.”
“Nobody really cooks around here but Laurel and Mrs. G.”
“Mrs. G. Mrs. Grady? Is she still here? I didn’t see her today.”
“Still here, still running the place and everybody in it. Thank God for it. She’s on her annual winter vacation. She goes to St. Martin’s on January first, like clockwork, and stays until April. As usual, she made a freezer full of casseroles, soups, stews, and so on before she left so none of us would starve in the event of a blizzard or nuclear war.”
She stopped by her front door, cocked her head at him again. “It’s been a day. You held up, Professor.”
“It had some interesting moments. Oh, Sherry’s going for Number Three, with buffet.”
“Good choice. Thanks for the walk, and the ear.”
“I like to walk.” He pushed his hands in his pockets since he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I’d better get going because driving in it’s a little trickier. And . . . school night.”
“School night,” she repeated and smiled.
Then she laid her pocket-warmed hands on his cheeks, brushed her lips to his in a light, friendly, close to sisterly kiss.
He blanked. He moved before he thought, acted before he checked. He took her shoulders, pulled her in—pressed her back to the door as he took the simple brush of lips into the long and the dark.
What he’d imagined at seventeen plunged into reality at thirty. The taste of her, the feel . That moment of lips and tongue, and the heat rising in the blood. In the quiet of snowfall, that elemental hush, the sound of her breath sighing out broke in his mind like thunder.
A storm gathering.
She didn’t nudge him back, push him away, protest his shoving open the door of her friendly gesture into the hot and wild. Her first thought was, who knew? Who knew the nice-guy English professor who walked into walls could kiss like this?
Like he planned to drag you off into the nearest cave and rip off your clothes, while you eagerly ripped off his.
Then thinking stopped being an option, and all she could do was try to keep up.
Swept away. She’d never actually believed that one, but this was swept away.
Her hands slid up from his face, forked through his hair. Gripped.
The movement slapped him back. Now he did step away, nearly slipping on the snow that covered the path. She didn’t move an inch, but stared out at him from eyes that gleamed in the dark.
God, he thought, God. He’d lost his mind.
“I’m sorry.” He fumbled it as arousal and mortification warred inside him. “Sorry. That was—wasn’t—Just . . . really sorry.”
She continued to stare as he hurried away, his strides made awkward by the fresh fall of snow. She heard, somewhere in the roaring in her head, the beep of his key lock, and watched him climb into his car in the overhead light after he wrenched open the door.
He pulled out before she got her breath and her voice back. As he drove away, she managed a weak, “No problem.”
Feeling a lot more buzzed than she had on wine, she let herself into the house. She went to the kitchen, poured his untouched wine down the sink, followed it with what was left in hers. After looking blindly around, she turned, leaned back on the counter.
“Wow,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
S OME MORNINGS YOU JUST
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