Yours to Keep by Serena Bell Page A

going to kiss her. She’d wanted him to kiss her. She’d watched him struggle with Theo and thought about how thoroughly in command of himself and the situation he’d been in Ed Branch’s office, and how she liked that contrast. Like the crisp chocolate shell of a DoveBar and the melting ice-cream interior.
    Or maybe that wasn’t the best analogy, since it was making her mouth water, which made her want to step closer to him again, and it was clear that the onion goggles had stolen the moment. He was not going to kiss her, and she shouldn’t want him to kiss her, because itcould only lead to trouble. Potential heartbreak was the least of it. If anything went wrong, if they got together and then split up, if he got angry or vindictive …
    “That’s just pathetic,” he said to the goggles.
    “It’s not so bad.”
    “No wonder he doesn’t take me seriously.”
    “Oh,” she said. “I wouldn’t say that at all. What makes you think that?”
    “Just … the behavior—forging my signature, getting dragged home by the cops. I should probably go up there and talk to him, huh?”
    No. You should stay down here. Because I think you were about to kiss me, and I’d like you to pick up where you left off.
    But, apart from the fact that she knew he needed to attend to Theo, she should not be thinking about kissing him. No matter how good he’d looked towering over her, no matter how good he’d smelled, leaning in, his breath touching her mouth …
    She nodded.
    “Can you … would you … does next Monday work?”
    For a brief, dizzying moment, she’d thought that he was about to ask her something else. “Sure. Although, I do often recommend twice a week to start out. Then we can go to once a week if he seems like he’s on track.”
    “Okay. What works for you?”
    “Thursday?”
    “Sure.”
    He crossed the kitchen and opened a drawer. She watched as he pulled out a checkbook. Oh, hell: Here came the moment of truth. Her breath shortened. What would he say? Would he instantly make the connection? People were so much less naïve about what “cash only” meant these days than they’d been ten years ago.
    He found a small clear area of countertop. He scrabbled in the drawer, extracted a pen. “How much do I owe you?”
    “I prefer cash, if possible.” She held her breath.
    But he only gave an easy shrug and dug into the back pocket of his khakis, emerging with a well-worn brown leather wallet. He raised an eyebrow at her.
    “Thirty-five,” she said.
    He handed it to her. “I’m really awful at having cash on hand. I’ll try to remember, but I can guarantee you I’m going to forget from time to time.” He gave her a sheepish grin, and laugh lines formed at the corners of his eyes.
    Her heart thudded in her chest. When you spent most of your life around dark-skinned, dark-eyed men, green eyes and pale-gold stubble could mess with your head.
    The front doorbell rang, and Ethan looked startled.
    “That’s probably the shuttle driver. I had him come a little later today because it was the first day and there’s usually stuff to talk about.” She laughed. “Not usually quite so much stuff.”
    “I could have given you a ride. If I’d known you needed one.”
    “The shuttle is a very green option.” That was the line she used with all her clients, because it was way simpler than telling them that she didn’t have a car. It had never felt like a lie before, but somehow it did with Ethan. As if she owed him a real explanation. That scared her. It meant that she already cared what he thought.
    He watched the shuttle pull away. He felt fritzed-out on the aftereffects of six different kinds of adrenaline. He’d been so close to kissing her. He’d been able to smell her shampoo—strawberry, maybe?—and see that up close her skin was even clearer and softer looking than from afar. He’d been near enough to imagine the sensation of taking her lower lip gently between his teeth, of drawing her