by G. K. Brady
“Of course.”
“So. Show me what you got, hockey player.” She was enjoying egging him on a little too much. He didn’t look like he minded, though.
“All right, Curly, since you insist.” He closed the gap and looked down at her, hesitating. “What do I do with my hands?”
“What do you usually do with your hands?” Vaguely, she became aware her heart rate had kicked up, and a delightful heat was rolling off of him and wrapping itself around her.
“Uh, not sure I’ve ever really thought about it.”
“Then just put them where they want to go naturally. Shoulders, waist, wherever. Well, stay away from … you know, the girlie parts.”
“Got it. No girlie parts.” He looked like he was holding back a snicker—or twelve.
Oh so lightly, she slid her hands up his chest and rested them on his shoulders, chiding herself for enjoying the feel of his hard planes beneath her touch.
He glanced down at one of those hands.
“I’ve never really thought about it either, but I guess my hands are doing what comes naturally,” she said.
They both burst into laughter and pulled apart.
“See? Totally nonsexual,” she giggled.
“Yeah, right.” He pulled in a breath and placed his hands on her waist. They were big, strong, with a heat imprint she’d feel for days. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Rising up on tiptoe, she canted her head. They locked eyes—and burst out in laughter again. Her laugh, unfortunately, escaped in the form of a very unladylike snort.
When she caught her breath, she said, “Maybe we should call it quits. This is obviously not working.”
“Chicken,” he challenged. “I don’t like quitting. Let’s give it one more try.”
Tacitly, she accepted that challenge; she was no quitter either. They returned to their previous poses, but this time when she pushed up on her toes, he lowered his mouth to hers. It was a quick, chaste kiss. Not enough to gauge his technique, but enough that she felt the promise behind it. He pulled back, and, holding his half-lidded gaze, she lifted her finger to his chin and drew him back down again.
There was nothing chaste or quick about the kiss that followed.
Chapter 7
The Art of Parsing
The clattering of Michaela’s glasses on the floor had Blake wrenching himself away from the press of her body, and not a moment too soon. Staying in that lip-lock with her a second longer would have surely betrayed the inconvenient manifestation of what the kiss did to him.
Holy fuck!
Plus, the annoying little voice that kept telling him he shouldn’t be kissing the girl Ferguson wanted had reached a feverishly shrill pitch.
His breathing ragged, chest pounding, he opened his eyes to find her dazed silver ones looking up at him. Though he’d pulled away, he kept his hands on her upper back and in her hair, where they’d landed sometime during a long, wet, consuming fusion of their mouths.
“How did I do?” he rasped.
She blinked as though awakening and put another inch of space between them. Her eyes traveled around the room, reminding him of someone trying to get her bearings. He was right there with her, his mind a drunken, dizzy, spinning top. A scatter of confused emotions skated circles in his head. Lust, guilt, desire, alarm at his lack of control.
“I, uh,”—she paused to clear her throat—“I have good news for you. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your kissing.”
He swallowed hard. “Good to know.” Reluctantly, he let his hands slide off her as his senses reeled from the plus-ten stun factor they’d just withstood. He bent to pick up her glasses and handed them to her.
“I stand by my, uh, initial, um, whatever I said about her wanting to see you again.” Her eyes landed squarely on his. “You don’t need lessons. You’re just fine.” She patted his chest. Though it was more of a sisterly gesture, it was far too short. He wanted her hand back, and he found himself craving a touch that was more … intimate.
Good thing she moved to pick up her stuff—he had no clue what—and headed for the door. All of him wanted her to stay, which was a bad, bad thing. Unsure what to say or what to do, he blurted out, “Did you know that two-thirds of people tilt their head to the right when they kiss?” Oh Jesus! Way to show her what a total dumbass you are.
“Interesting,” she mumbled as she scurried to leave. “Well, good-bye. Thanks for … thanks.” The door shut softly behind her before he even realized she was gone. By the time his right mind came back online and told his feet what to do, it was too late. He opened the door, poked his head out, and peered down the hallway, but it was empty. No doubt she was walled up in her own space, safely away from him … which might not have been a bad outcome, considering he had no idea what more he would have said to her. “Hey, great kissing you. When can we do that again? By the way, my roommate’s crushing on you, so don’t tell him. And yes, that makes me a complete and utter dickwad.”
He closed his own door and slumped against it, mindful of the ache in his pants. What the fuck had just happened? His world had tilted, that’s what happened. It had just been rocked by a five-foot-nothing, curly-headed, silver-eyed woman he’d never seen coming. But Jesus, look what he would have missed! Which reminded him how wrong he’d been to kiss her in the first place. Guilt surged inside of him, and reflex sent his hand to his mouth, but he stopped himself before his fingers could swipe the taste of her off his lips. He wanted to savor that taste as long as it lasted.
Rocketing up to his feet, he let out a string of curses, asking himself one more time what he’d been thinking. He hadn’t. Another part of his anatomy had done the thinking and yanked the rest of him right along with it in its single-minded quest.
For all his remorse and self-recrimination, though, he let out a laugh. “I don’t need kissing lessons.”
As he said the words aloud, his ego ballooned. He pumped his arm. “Yeah, you got this!” Now he could kiss indiscriminately without second-guessing himself—which struck him like a stick to the mouth. What if his kissing skills only applied to her? He’d been on sensory overload, the sweet taste of her, her fresh fragrance, the feel of her in his arms, of her mouth under his. His mind had blasted off into the clouds, and there had only been her and him … and a kiss that had sent electrical current thrumming in his veins.
Had her world been rocked like his had?
It’s not like we’re attracted to each other. That might have been true before the kiss … No, if he were being absolutely honest with himself, the attraction was there before. And he knew that because he’d been a little too eager to try out that kiss. Which made him a douche of epic proportions.
He shook his head. I can’t be attracted to her. Ferguson has dibs. She wasn’t even Blake’s type, he told himself. Not that he had a type, but short and curly didn’t do a thing for him. Nope, not a thing.
Jesus, what would Ferguson think if he knew?
Wait. Was the object of his roommate’s attention in the habit of kissing guys she wasn’t attracted to? If so, what did that number top out at? Guilt over the kiss loosened its stranglehold a fraction but roared right back when his mind zoomed to the solid fact that with or without glasses, curly hair or not, Michaela Wagner was hot as fuck and he wanted to know more about her. He gave himself an inner slap and got to work scouring the kitchen.
After slipping silently through her own door—as if she might wake someone who wasn’t even there—Michaela made a beeline for the kitchen, deftly skirting a console table and the edge of an etched glass wall. Which was a minor miracle, considering her current lack of brainpower. Grabbing a drinking glass, she inserted it into the Sub-Zero’s cold-water dispenser, filled it, and stared at it. Then she proceeded to pull her shirt away from her chest and tip the contents of the glass down her front, gasping when the icy water hit her skin. As water dribbled down her body and puddled at her feet, her brain snapped to. She blew out a breath.
“Oh. M
y. God!” Glancing at the empty glass, she pondered another dousing. “What the hell did you just do?” she admonished herself. “Kissed my neighbor. After telling him I wanted him for his bod,” she answered herself in a feigned matter-of-fact tone. “And now you’re talking to yourself, which proves you’re losing your freaking mind.” She shook her head and told herself to get a grip on her hormones.
With a wad of paper towels, she attacked the pooled water.
What, exactly, had she been trying to prove when she’d drawn Blake in for that kiss? No idea. If she had been trying to convince herself she wasn’t attracted to him, she had failed miserably. Maybe she could have kept up a pretense before she locked lips with him, but there was no denying the pull once the deed was done. Remembering how his mouth had moved with hers, how he’d taken over the kiss and deepened it, caused her body to flush. She refilled her water glass.
After a restless sleep filled with alcohol-fueled dreams that were embarrassingly erotic, Michaela hauled her butt out of bed, intent on parking it at the office. She had a heap of work to make up, and submerging herself in it would help her erase one hunky, kissing-competent neighbor from her overactive imagination.
A shower later, followed by a few extra swipes at her wayward curls and a second dab of perfume—neither of which she ever did for a mere Sunday foray into the office—she tiptoed into the hallway. Shuffling past Blake’s door, she prayed it wouldn’t open and reveal his six-foot-whatever frame, blond hair, and green eyes. She also prayed it would. Luckily—or not—the door remained shut, and fifteen minutes later she was seated behind her desk, nose and eyes glued to her computer screen.
Shuffling in the hall grabbed her attention. She stood to find out what was making the noise and gasped when Mr. Steadman’s white-haired head popped around her doorframe. “Why, Miss Wagner. It is you working on Sunday. Shouldn’t you be home sleeping in or enjoying time with your boyfriend?” The glint in his eyes and his quirking smile told her she was right where he expected her to be—especially if she was going to pull ahead of the pack in the race for that coveted client. She chose to ignore his obvious fishing expedition to discover her single-or-not status.
“Mr. Steadman! I didn’t realize you were in the office.”
“Just stopped by to pick up a file.”
Why did she get the impression he’d stopped by for more than a file? That maybe a quick tour to see who was putting in extra time had been his real motive? He had to be slick and sneaky to have ascended to his lawyerly pinnacle, after all.
She hesitated a beat before asking, “Is anyone else here? Just wondering so I know whether to lock up when I leave.” She was being a little sneaky herself, harboring hope she could shine in his eyes by outshining the other juniors, who were probably having more fun than she was today.
He shook his head ruefully, and though it shouldn’t have, her heart lifted. So did her shoulders. “No, Ms. Wagner, you are flying solo in the fort this fine Sunday morning.”
Oh yeah! Scoring some brownie points. “Is it nice out? I’ve been so busy I hadn’t noticed.” Okay, now you’re just piling it on.
“It’s a lovely day. Hopefully, you will find time enough to enjoy it.” He tapped her doorframe and looked at her as though adding sums in his head. “Ms. Wagner, my wife has decided it’s high time we threw a dinner party for a select few of the newer associates and their significant others. Something about putting faces with names. At any rate, I do hope you can attend. I presume a pretty thing like you has a beau to bring along. If you don’t, my wife has any number of friends with unattached sons. I’m sure one among them would prove a willing escort.” The smile that followed this kernel of an inappropriate statement was of the fatherly variety, not that Michaela was one to borrow trouble and interpret it as something sexual harassment-worthy. Just a gentleman from a bygone era being complimentary. Probably.
In retrospect, she couldn’t say which struck her dumber. That she was being singled out for dinner at the Steadmans’—along with other associates, of course—or that Mr. Steadman was offering for his wife to set her up with a date from among their lofty social circle. While the opportunity to hobnob in the vaunted Steadman mansion was too enticing to resist, she wasn’t about to get sucked into a blind date that could easily go off the rails right before Steadman’s very eyes. Even her closest friends’ blind date choices had proved disastrous over the years, which was why she’d pretty much sworn them off. Well, except those she arranged herself through dating apps.
This thought process culminated in the ambitious devil on her shoulder blurting out for her, “I’d be delighted to come, Mr. Steadman, and so would my beau.”
Wait. What beau?
His smile broadened. “Wonderful. I’ll tell Francis to send you a formal invitation for two. I’m very much looking forward to meeting the man who has captured your attention.”
“Of-of course, Mr. Steadman,” she stammered.
“Have a pleasant Sunday, Ms. Wagner.”
With that, he was gone, and Michaela stared at the open doorway where he’d just been. She blinked once, twice, suddenly aware she needed to go shopping … for a date, and not just any date. He had to be someone well-mannered who could hold his own with the hoity-toity crowd—or who knew when to keep quiet. Who wouldn’t embarrass her or blow her opportunity to cozy up to the Steadmans and, by default, the Fenton account.
Except she’d lied. Or had she? No, her statement could be massaged into something akin to a white lie by omission. If she had a boyfriend, he would be delighted to go because he’d be the supportive type. He could also be the type to come down with a last-minute illness and be too sick to accompany her, leaving her to attend without her nonexistent significant other. But that would be lying. Then again, if he didn’t exist, would saying he couldn’t make it truly be a lie?
Parsing could be so exhausting.
Nevertheless, she’d painted herself into a corner, and if she backpedaled now, her character might be called into question. And she might get stuck with a blind date she wanted no part of.
Heaving a breath, she picked up her phone and began scrolling through her contacts. Surely there was at least one man who could play the role.
Minutes after she’d launched her search—and repeated it twice—she put down the phone in defeat and thunked her forehead against her desktop. Her meager requirements meant 99.9 percent of the men in her phone didn’t qualify, and the ones that did—like her father or her ex—were utterly unsuitable.
Her thought process spiraled in desperation, vaulting to various scenarios where she might find a solution. She could subject herself to another round of speed dating; maybe she’d been hasty in rejecting possible suitors that night. The hostess had begged her to give it another try and had even offered a free session. As she flicked through her mind’s catalog of candidates from the event, though, she grimaced reflexively. Nope, that’s out.
An idea winked on like the lights in a hockey arena. The newly single coach—Scott?—loomed in her future at Paige’s party. If he was anything like Paige’s husband, he could be her perfect stand-in. Michaela had been filled with dread at the prospect of going, churning through excuses to bow out. But now the thought of attending buoyed her spirits, and she hummed a tune as she sauntered into the break room to fix herself a cup of fuel, er, coffee.
“Half and half,” she sang out, reaching for the creamy stuff in the fridge … which she nearly dropped when she wheeled and found herself face-to-face with Brad Hewitt.
“Omigod!” she gasped and braced a hand on the counter. “I thought I was the only one working here today.”
His wide eyes gave her chest a blatant and thorough sweep that had her stifling a shudder and sidestepping him.
“Sorry, Michaela. I thought you knew I was behind you.”
“No, you didn’t,” she wanted to fire back but didn’t. Instead, she steadied the tremble in her hand and quickly prepped her cup. “What are you working on?” And why
do you always pop up during the same off-hours I’m here?
“Just taking care of some loose ends before the work week.” He crowded her, and she inched toward the fridge until she couldn’t inch anymore. Brad wasn’t scary, but he was verging on a creepiness she hadn’t noticed before.
“So, ah, Michaela.” She darted a look toward him. Moisture dotted his forehead, and his eyes shifted left to right. “What, um, about dinner when we’re done here?”
She plucked her cup from the counter and wriggled away, heading for the door. “Oh, I can’t. I have so much to do.”
“But you have to eat sometime!” he whined, sounding as though he strained to come off as funny but not quite hitting the right note. Before she could conjure another flimsy reply, he was back in her bubble, a sweaty hand grasping her upper arm. Her alarm must have shown because he immediately dropped the hand.
“I just want to do s-something n-nice for you,” he stammered. He looked so pathetic that she paused a second … which offered him a chance to lean down to her.
She reared back in horror, bumping her cup and spilling half its contents on the counter. Had he meant to kiss her? No clue, but she tore off a few paper towels and tossed them at the mess before scurrying to her office, calling out, “Gotta get back to work,” or something equally feeble over her shoulder. Inside her office, she locked her door and leaned against it until she got her runaway breathing under control.
He didn’t follow her—that she could tell—and by the time she poked her head out hours later, he was gone and she’d convinced herself his clumsy lunge had been unintentional and she’d misread the entire situation.
Chapter 8
Mothers and Other Guilt-Inducing Anomalies
Blake was tossing spare rolls of tape into his gear bag when Owen sidled up beside him. “Good practice today, huh? You did okay, I thought.”
