by JC Harroway
I grow serious. She still hasn’t admitted any feelings for me, and I’ve fucked up, big time. I need to have the hope confirmed. ‘Please...don’t give up on me...on us.’
She pushes at my shoulders, and I relax my grip on her waist, allowing her to slide down my body, but not to escape entirely.
‘I can’t...’
‘Can’t what?’ A breeze block settles in my gut.
‘I can’t fight the Kit effect.’ She sighs. ‘I think I love you too.’ Her cute freckled nose wrinkles, as if she doesn’t much care for the emotion. ‘A new experience for me.’
‘You do?’ My grin actually makes my cheeks ache. I’ll have to convince her again and again.
Fucking yeah, I will.
‘And if you’re going to be my first boyfriend, you’ll have to hold my hand a lot, right...? It’s part of the job description.’
I lift her hand to my mouth, sliding my lips over her knuckles while a low growl escapes me. ‘We’re going to have to come up with a manlier title than boyfriend, darling.’ I press my hard-on into her belly. ‘That’s really not working for me.’
She laughs. ‘Fair enough. I’ll think of an alternative while I’m away. To be continued...?’
‘To be continued.’ And then I kiss her.
EPILOGUE
Mia
I’VE WATCHED THE footage three hundred and twenty-seven times in the three weeks I’ve spent in South America, the last fifty of those on the flight from Rio to Heathrow. Surely that’s some sort of sappy, lovesick record... Surely no girlfriend in history has been more committed...
I have Bob to thank for my current obsession. Kit sent me the footage Bob’s harness camera captured on the beach in Jersey. He’d had it edited. One short segment in particular he sent in a separate e-mail entitled ‘We miss you, come home!’
It’s a little jerky, Bob’s enthusiastic bouncing rendering the film far from useable, but as he races across the beach, his claws flicking up wet sand and spray dripping from his sopping coat, he inadvertently films a kiss.
A Kit and Mia kiss.
It’s the kiss following the first time I admitted to myself that I loved him. It’s not Hollywood-worthy or particularly romantic—we’re lying on the sand, yanking at each other’s clothes like randy teens. But there’s passion and heat in the way we’re staring at each other, and the first glimmer of what I assume love looks like when Bob finally reaches us and sprays us with seawater and the passion turns to laughter.
That’s the point where I pause the movie. The look on Kit’s face as he grins down at me steals my breath.
Every time.
Three hundred and twenty-seven times.
My lungs are still struggling as I pass through the first-class arrivals lounge—my upgrade a surprise from my new boyfriend—and follow my escort to the exit.
Because I know he’s waiting.
He’s already texted me six times. Sexy, urbane Kit can be as impatient as a kid on Christmas morning when he wants something. And he still hates the boyfriend title, which I use all the more because every time I do he promises physical retribution—the belly-quivering kind. I have three weeks’ worth of retribution waiting for me.
I can’t wait.
I bite my lip, recalling all the filthy phone calls and video calls we’ve managed to squeeze into three weeks. And then there’s no respite from the fizz in my blood because he’s there, and I’m engulfed in his hug and swung in a circle while he kisses me senseless.
‘Fuck, I missed you.’ He cups my face, his hands big and warm and as real as the man himself, stealing my air with his kiss. His hair is longer, his handsome face partially obscured by scruff. But I wouldn’t have him any other way.
I gasp, breaking away to stave off light-headedness. ‘You need a haircut.’
He laughs. ‘Straight to the point. How about I missed you too, Kit? Take me home and make good on all those orgasms you owe me, Kit? You’re the sexiest man on the planet, Kit, and I love you?’
I look down, still too bewildered by the Kit effect to voice those things, although every word is true.
Kit tilts my chin with one index finger, his other hand reaching between us to capture my hand. He lifts my fingers to his mouth, his stare hot on mine as he presses each fingertip to his lips.
‘I.’ Kiss. ‘Love.’ Kiss. ‘You.’ Kiss. ‘Mia.’ Kiss. ‘Abbott.’ Kiss.
He’s out of fingers and I’m out of oxygen, because my lungs are shrivelled husks.
‘I love you too.’
He flashes his best grin, plus dimple. ‘Good. Let’s go home and celebrate. There’s a surprise in the car.’
He tugs me towards the limo and opens the door to reveal Bob sitting on the back seat, his happy tail ecstatic.
After doggy hugs, watery laughter and more Kit kisses, I sober enough to see the gift-wrapped box beside Kit.
Kit explains as I tug at the ribbon. ‘Bob bought you a new drone. He said he was very sorry for breaking your last one and he won’t do it again.’ He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a smaller wrapped gift. ‘And this one is from me. I wondered if you’d like to make a new arrangement?’
I take the small package and lift my eyebrows, waiting for his explanation.
‘You move in with Bob and me, help us eat all the food we’ve bought especially for your return and we’ll promise to love you every day. Just the way you are—perfect.’
I gasp, squeezing the package which, in light of his proposal, feels like a key. ‘I can’t. We’ve only known each other six weeks.’ When the fuck did I become so sensible and conventional?
Kit takes the gift, lifting it to face level between us while he slowly, assuredly unwraps it. His intense eyes hold mine captive. ‘You can, Mia. You can live with me, while you’re in London, if that’s what you want. Every day is precious. Let’s enjoy them all together—the best adventure.’
I kiss him then, fighting him for air without letting him go. Because he’s right. With our lips still locked I pull my phone from my pocket, stretch out my arm and fire off a burst of kiss selfies for later perusal, although with the real thing close at hand I may not get around to watching the footage as many times as I’d like.
Mia’s going to be very busy.
* * *
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Playing with Fire
by Rebecca Hunter
CHAPTER ONE
SIMON RODRIGUEZ PULLED off the road across from the gated entrance of the Spanish-style house and put the rental car into Park. He rubbed his jaw, scraping his fingers over the unshaven scruff he hadn’t bothered with this morning at the hotel. No one lived in this house anymore as far as he knew. No one would witness this one last glimpse at the place that had almost wrecked him.
He pulled off his sunglasses and rolled down the window of the black town car for a better look. Damn, it was hot in Miami Beach, that sticky, heavy hot that made an afternoon of construction work a living hell. He had quit that kind of manual labor when he enlisted and left Miami eleven years ago, but his reaction was still visceral. Just one more reason he’d gotten the fuck out of here, out of this state, out of this country. Away from the one woman Simon should never have gotten involved with.
Best decision of his life.
So, what was he doing here, in front of Marianna Ruiz’s house? She had moved out of this place years ago when she got married. The gate was locked shut. And wasn’t it damned fitting that even after her father’s death, Simon was still barred from the place.
He was saying goodbye for the very last time. That was what he was doing. Clearly, the other last time wasn’t painful enough to keep him away. But there was nothing left to suck him in again. He’d just get a little closure.
Simon stared at the enormous structure behind the gates, partly hidden behind lush green palm trees that lined the property. Off to the side, the very top of the boathouse was visible, the boathouse he and his father had built one summer long ago. If Marianna hadn’t sold off her father’s estate yet, it probably still sheltered the boat where he and Marianna had—
A red sports car screeched to a stop by the driveway. Startled, Simon whipped his head around. The gates creaked open, and the vehicle lurched forward, tires squealing. It headed up the narrow asphalt, then shrieked to a halt again, front tires digging into the grass. The driver laid on his horn a couple times. What the hell?
The front door of the house opened, and a woman stepped out. Her face was covered in shadow as she closed the door behind her, but he’d know that woman anywhere.
Marianna.
It was a punch in the gut. Her dark, wavy hair was longer now, and she wore a white button-up shirt and a red skirt. Definitely a woman, not a girl anymore. Still beautiful.
Marianna pushed her hair back from her face and crossed her arms. As she stepped into the sunlight, walking down the front steps toward the sports car, he fought that old, familiar ache deep down.
Simon frowned. What was Marianna doing here, at her father’s old house? And what the hell was up with the driver of the car?
A man climbed out and slammed the door shut, heading toward her way too fast. Simon gripped the steering wheel of his rental, ignoring the painful squeeze in his chest. The guy was clean-cut, with a crisp dress shirt and pants, but his fists were balled, and his face flushed in angry red. And he was walking toward the woman Simon had told himself he never wanted to see again. He should turn on the engine and get far away from here before he did something stupid.
“Goddammit, Marianna. What the fuck are you trying to pull?” the guy yelled.
The asshole stormed up to her, coming way too close. And yelling way too loud. “You can’t just go down to the pier and ask to open up the shipments. You have no idea the kind of shit you’re messing with.”
Marianna shrank back from him, but the guy took that as an invitation to step closer. Simon gritted his teeth, wishing like hell he had just stayed away.
She stumbled a little as she stepped onto the lawn. The dickhead was a lot bigger than her, but even as she backed away, she jutted her chin up at him, trying to hold her ground. Like she had stood up to him before.
Simon grimaced. Shit. The situation was going downhill fast. He couldn’t leave a scene like this. He had years of reading incidents under his belt, and everything about this guy screamed volatile.
“It’s my company, too, William,” she said, her voice steady. “In fact, it’s my name that’s on it, in case you’ve forgotten.”
William. Her husband. William Rooney III, a name synonymous with wealth and privilege. Everything that Simon couldn’t give her eleven years ago. My cue to get the fuck out of here. Except that William looked more like a brawler than a country-club boy right now, and Simon didn’t like Marianna’s odds if the man decided to get physical. This guy was twice her size and had a volatile look about him.
Now wasn’t the time for Simon to lose his shit. He had watched this kind of scene play out too many times, men teetering on the delicate line between anger and violence. This one could go either way. But Simon was not getting out of this car. He was not coming face-to-face with Marianna again. Not unless there was no other way.
“You know nothing about what makes Ruiz Imports work, and it will all come crashing down if you don’t back the hell off.” William’s loud growl echoed across the lawn as he moved into her personal space. “So go back to your client dinners and your charity bullshit and leave this alone.”
Marianna shook her head. “You need to leave or I’ll call the police. This is my house. You can’t come here.”
“Don’t ever tell me what to do.”
His voice was low and menacing, and the asshole grabbed her arm. Marianna flinched.
It all happened so quickly that Simon didn’t remember getting out of his car. The next thing he knew he was walking straight for them, taking in the environment, calculating every risk. This man was heated, explosive, and all Simon could think about was getting him far away from Marianna.
He headed through the gate and crossed the lawn, just out of William’s line of sight. Every step forward was a strain on his tight grip of self-control. He was silent until he was within reach. Best to ca
tch this guy off guard. Probably the type that only responded to a show of power.
“Take your hand off her.” Simon’s voice was cold, threatening.
“Who the hell are you?” William swung around, his eyes wild. “This is none of your fucking business. Leave. Now.”
Anger rolled off this guy, but now it was directed at Simon. The guy’s focus was broken.
“Simon?” whispered Marianna. The shock on her face was unmistakable.
His heart twisted in a fresh, painful squeeze. Goddamn. That voice. He couldn’t get distracted. He couldn’t even look at her. Not until this asshole was far away.
“Take your hand off her.” Simon kept his voice calm but wedged himself between William and Marianna.
The guy was a bully, but up close he didn’t look like much of a fighter. It took another moment for William to register that Simon had every advantage here. Height. Weight. Technique. Scowling, William let his arm drop and stepped back.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re getting involved with,” William spat.
Actually, Simon knew exactly what he was getting involved with.
“She asked you to leave,” said Simon.
Every time William hesitated, Simon inched over, putting himself farther between the two, keeping Marianna shielded behind him. William shook his head in disgust, backing away toward the car. “Stay the fuck away from the piers, Marianna. You’re already in too deep.”
William climbed into the red sports car and revved the engine. He skidded back onto the pavement and drove away.
Simon stood absolutely still as the noise from the engine faded away. Then there was nothing left except the din of neighborhood traffic, the gentle brush of the palms in the wind and Marianna’s breaths. Slowly, he turned around.
She gaped at him. “Simon?”
His name was both a question and a sigh. Her voice, soft and raspy, awoke something that was supposed to be long dead, dead and buried. Simon searched for words, but nothing came.
