Leslie didn’t know how long she sobbed messily into his shirt, but when she pulled away, there was a huge wet spot that went from shoulder to halfway down the soft, brushed cotton.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a little hiccup and a short, pained laugh. She batted at the massive wet spot. “I ruined your sh-shirt. I hope you didn’t have plans tonight.”
Now that she’d emerged from the storm of grief and anger, she felt as if she were coming back to herself—back to reality. Here in her kitchen, with a soft, comforting glow, the smell of popcorn and old pizza—and, most of all, the smell of Declan: fresh, clean, male, delicious.
And in the very same position he’d been in the last time she was in his arms: up against the island, holding her close.
“Plans? Well, I was sort of in the mood to watch Gilmore Girls,” he said, reaching casually for a big handful of popcorn.
Leslie burst out with a short, surprised laugh and looked up at him. Good grief, he looked delicious. Just…good enough to eat: all tall and sturdy, with his dark green eyes settled on her, a glint of humor and warmth in them. And a big wet spot on his dark blue and green diamond-patterned shirt.
“I’d have to make some more popcorn, at the rate you’re going there,” she said nonchalantly.
“Okay.” He jumped on that immediately, a smile twitching his lips.
“But you have to promise you won’t judge me when you see how much butter I put on it.”
“Well, it’s not like it’s a whole stick, is it?” He was still munching away.
Leslie spun away neatly without answering, suddenly ridiculously, crazily lighthearted. Smiling.
“Is it?” he asked again, his tone lilting with laughter.
“What do you want to drink?” she asked. “Have you even ever watched Gilmore Girls?”
“Do I have a teenaged daughter and Netflix?” he replied. “And beer or iced tea works.”
Leslie poured a scoop of popcorn into the hot air popper and turned to assess him closely. “Then tell me if you’re a Jess or a Dean shipper, and a Luke or a Christopher shipper. Beer’s in the fridge. So’s iced tea.”
“Shipper?”
“You said you had a teenaged daughter. Shipper—meaning, relationship. Who are you rooting for in the relationships with the various Gilmore girls?” She shook her head, arms crossed over her middle. “See, I knew you were making that up—”
“Jess and Christopher,” he said as he emerged from the fridge with one of the longnecks and the iced tea pitcher. “Jess because he’s misunderstood, and Christopher because he should be with his daughter.” He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, giving her a “so there” look.
“All right, then, you can stay,” she told him, unable to hold back a delighted grin. Partly because he was here, partly because he was acting normally, and partly because…well, he hadn’t asked any of the questions she knew he had. What a guy. “Even if I don’t completely agree with you.”
“Well, that’s what makes things interesting, isn’t it?” His voice dropped a little. Just enough to send a little frisson of awareness through her. He was watching her with those green eyes…very closely, very steadily, but without demand. Just…letting her know he was noticing her.
And she was certainly noticing him: all warm and bronzy and coppery, with his dark mahogany hair and the generous brush of freckles that made his skin look richer and duskier than a mere tan. The memory of the way his damp shirt clung to the muscles beneath had her mouth going dry. She wanted to touch that skin, feel the slide of those muscles and the warmth of him against her. And she wanted to taste him again. Taste, and lick, and nibble and more.
Leslie tucked away the delicate flutter in the base of her belly and savored it like a neat little secret as she made the rest of the popcorn. It was nice to have someone here—besides Rufus, anyway—even though she hadn’t thought she wanted anyone around. And it was even nicer that it was someone like Declan, around whom she felt amazingly comfortable and relaxed.
And even more, it was a blessing that he not only listened and comforted her, but that he wasn’t trying to move them back to where they’d been five days ago—plastered against each other, her butt on the island, hands everywhere.
Not that she wasn’t interested in it, but she appreciated him taking it easy for the moment.
“I’m just starting season three,” she said, drizzling an obscene amount of butter over the popcorn in a shallow twenty-four-inch-wide bowl. “It’s my favorite.”
“Ah. You must be a Jess shipper, then,” he said, pouring two glasses of iced tea. He winked when she looked at him in surprise. “I told you I watched it! Between that and Glee, Stephanie and I have really done some father-daughter bonding.”
She laughed, but said nothing as she led the way out of the kitchen into her bedroom/office/living room suite.
“This is really nice,” he said, looking around. “Very cozy.”
She smiled with delight. “I love this suite so much. It’s really the first time I’ve ever had my own space, designed from top to bottom, if you will. Before, I just moved into an apartment or condo and…well, I didn’t spend the time or energy to make it much of my own. I was too busy working. But since I plan to be here a long time…”
She looked around, seeing the well-lit space though his eyes. The main room was like a neat, compact library, with a desk and credenza at one end, shelves lining the walls wherever there wasn’t a window, and a sitting area. The last had the most comfortable leather sectional she’d ever known in front of a television that raised and lowered on its own shelf from inside a cabinet.
The decor was eclectic, leaning toward spare and professional, with leather seating mixed with glass and mahogany tables and shelves, brightly colored throw pillows and area rug, and some eye-catching artwork. The lighting was fun: fancy and feminine with lots of crystals and unique textured shades, but also functional for work.
There were two doors leading further into the suite: one to a master bathroom, small but luxurious, and to a postage-stamp-sized bedroom that just fit her queen-sized bed with room to move around it. However, she had a large walk-in closet (the reason the bedroom was so small) that was lined with shelves and organizers. The closet was nearly the size of her bedroom.
“I see you’ve found a roommate.”
Leslie laughed when she realized he was talking about Rufus, who’d made himself extremely comfortable in the exact center of the L of the sectional. “Yes, and you’ll be glad to know he’s been de-flea-ed, considering where he’s chosen to ensconce himself.”
“Wow. You two sure moved fast. A few dinners, and all of a sudden you’re living together?”
Leslie gave a short laugh. “Well, why waste time? He’s a great roommate—he sleeps a lot, doesn’t drink my wine or eat my cupcakes, and he has yet to borrow any of my clothes. Of course, he does like to carouse and come in late at night. He had an extended visit at the vet Monday, and I only brought him home yesterday. He seems to like it here.”
“I can see why.” Declan’s eyes slid around the room once more, then settled on her just long enough for her belly to flutter happily.
Leslie realized she was a little flustered—but in a good way. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. Sitting in it was like lowering oneself into the palm of a big hand: you were cupped comfortably in all the right places, and could lean back with neck support exactly where you needed it.
He hesitated perceptibly, then chose a spot just past the center of the L-shaped sectional. Close enough to touch Rufus if he liked, but far enough away that she’d have room to decide where to sit. Leslie smiled.
Touché, sir, she thought. Now it’s up to me to decide how close to sit to your handsome self.
Then her smile faded. Something was bound to happen between them if she sat anywhere in his vicinity. Maybe it was best to clear the air first.
“So…” she said, picking up the remotes for the TV. “How was your dinner with
the Danubes Monday night?”
His attention snapped to her; he even put the popcorn bowl on the table in order to look up at her. “To tell the truth…it was pretty awkward.” He looked chagrined yet determined, and plowed on. “My daughter seems to think I need her help with my love life. So she’s been doing her best to…ah…encourage Emily…ah…in my direction. Not that Emily has needed any encouragement anyway.”
Leslie managed to smother a laugh. Well, that explained a lot. “I see. I guess Stephanie’s a big fan of The Parent Trap?”
“Maybe…I don’t know. Is that a movie? But I told you…I told you Friday night, there’s nothing going on with me and Emily. Even if Stephanie has indicated otherwise.”
“I have to admit, I wondered about that when I walked past Trib’s Saturday night and you and she were sitting there in the front window, looking rather cozy.” Leslie sank down on the couch, on the other limb of the L, and used the remote to wake up the video streaming device. Rufus apparently didn’t like having his sleep disturbed, and he gave an abbreviated, irritated yowl before leaping lightly off the couch.
“Yeah. Well, I sort of didn’t have much choice in the matter. Emily’s car broke down and she needed a ride to the pre-Homecoming festivities, and then she needed a ride home, and she wanted to join the other parents for dinner at Trib’s, and—”
“And you’re too nice of a guy to say no, even when you know you’re being—shall we say—managed.” Leslie was grinning by now. Poor thing. It was amazing how powerful and strong and assertive men could be…and how completely and utterly clueless when it came to women and their machinations.
Females really were the stronger sex.
He laughed uncomfortably as Rufus slunk along between Leslie’s legs and the coffee table. She bent to pet him, careful to avoid his tail—which had been carefully mended by Dr. V.
“Yeah, I guess,” Declan said. “But I had a nice little talk with Stephanie and let her know she didn’t need to interfere anymore. I didn’t tell her the reason,” he added hastily.
“The reason? What reason is that?” Leslie asked, her voice light and teasing.
His cheeks colored a little but his eyes narrowed with warning. “I think you know, Leslie van Dorn.” A tiny bit of a smile teased his lips. Then he eased back, leaning against the couch. His expression lost the bit of levity and became closed off. “But I’ve been wondering whether you had a good time Saturday night yourself. I heard you were at the Roost.”
“I was.” Rufus settled on a puffy ottoman and turned around in four circles as Leslie replied. “With Aunt Cherry and Orbra and Iva. And that author—John Fischer? He stopped by too, and so did Brad Beatty. I’ll be honest…I thought I might hear from you on Saturday sometime, but I didn’t. And then I saw you with Emily and…well, I thought I’d misread things on Friday.”
“You did not misread anything,” he said in a sort of annoyed, growly voice. “Unless you don’t know what it means when a guy can’t keep his hands—or his thoughts—off you.”
Oh. Well. Leslie subdued the sharp stab of lust that took her by surprise at his very honest, primitive words. She smiled a little. “It’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure I have an idea about that.” She turned toward the television and lifted the remote. “Now that we’ve got that settled…”
And she clicked play.
Declan gave a short laugh, relinquished the popcorn bowl to her, then settled back to watch Gilmore Girls.
And that was the moment Leslie fell hopelessly in love.
________
Declan probably wouldn’t have gone around telling Brad or his other guy friends how much he enjoyed the evening—watching what amounted to a chick-flick television series with four feet of space between him and the woman he was dying to get with—but damned if he didn’t have a good time.
Even if he did give up the rest of that sinful popcorn to her. It was more than worth it to see the expression on her face when he made such a sacrifice.
Even if he was completely and utterly aware of her the whole time. Her slender white feet were propped only a few inches away from his on the ottoman they shared with the cat. He swore he could feel the heat radiating from her toes.
Even if she looked pretty adorable, sort of bedraggled and frumpy after her long cry into the front of his shirt—which dried before the end of the second episode, by the way. Despite the fact that he thought Leslie looked delicious, he suspected if she saw herself in a mirror, she’d be horrified.
She’d pulled out the ponytail at some point, so her shiny black hair fell in loose, messy waves over her shoulders. Her nose was red from crying for quite a while afterward. Her eyes were still puffy from crying and lack of sleep. Bags under them too, and some dark circles. And her fingers were a little greasy from the popcorn, since she’d drowned it in butter.
Even so, he itched to pull her close, to slip an arm around her shoulders and have her scooch up next to him, especially now that he realized Brad Beatty had been totally wrong when he said Leslie had “been with” someone the other night. Clearly, she’d just been sitting at a table with this John Fischer person—which reminded him…
He’d been meaning to call his cousin Teddy about the guy. She’d know any scoop there was to know about the novelist Jeremy or John Fischer—whoever he was—being a big bestselling author herself. Whether the guy was a player, whether he was married. Anything important.
But for now, Declan just settled in quietly, enjoyed the show, and, even more, enjoyed the anticipation that sometime soon, he’d be doing exactly what he wanted to be doing. Sometime when the time was right. When she wasn’t dealing with her grief so strongly.
Much as he wanted to move in, he didn’t feel like it was right. Not tonight. Not when he was there just to comfort.
But man oh man…he really wanted to kiss her. To get closer…especially since he was pretty damn sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.
The very thought of that…the temptation…the knowledge was just about enough to kill him.
________
When Leslie got up to use the toilet and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she nearly shrieked.
Oh my God, I look like a hag!
She brushed her hair, brushed her teeth, put on some lip gloss, and snagged a bra from her bedroom—good thing her hoodie was loose; surely he hadn’t noticed—and even shucked her sweats to pull on a pair of leggings. No wonder Declan was keeping his distance.
She checked her pits—thank God she didn’t stink; she had showered early this morning before she decided to be schlumpy all day. Finally, she returned to the living area.
“I’m hungry. Are you? Do you want something to eat?”
He looked up at her and she felt rather than saw a flare of definite interest—and a very improper mental response to her question—and then he smiled. “You’re hungry? After eating almost that whole bowl of popcorn?”
“Come on out to the kitchen. I feel like I could pull together the energy to make something to eat that doesn’t have a whole stick of butter on it.”
“Shit, really? A whole stick? I can feel my arteries clogging as we speak.” He stood, giving Leslie the opportunity to admire the way his rugged jeans hung just perfectly: fitting closely in the right places, and relaxed in others. She’d been too busy sobbing earlier to notice.
“So I’ve been getting almost nightly visits from my ghostly friend,” she said, opening the fridge to see what she could throw together.
“You have?”
She glanced over her shoulder. He looked utterly stunned. “Yes. And no, I haven’t gone running away. I’ve slept here every night—well, almost every night in the last week. I spent Saturday at Cherry’s because I had a couple too many beers at the Roost.” She pulled out some queso fresco, cilantro, and fresh corn tortillas. “I hope you like Mexican.”
“It goes great with beer,” he said, eyeing her—or maybe it was the tortillas—with appreciation. No, it was her.
; She smiled to herself. Patience is a virtue, and anticipation is a gift.
“Have you figured out anything about what it wants? The ghost?”
“I’ve asked her. She hasn’t really answered me other than to point angrily at me—or down the stairs. I’m not sure which. And there’s that sound of something rolling downstairs, so I think she fell down and that’s how she died.” Leslie found two ripe avocados and a couple of beefsteak tomatoes in her fruit bowl. Then she went back to the fridge to retrieve some cooked chicken she had left over from the other night.
“There was a woman named Dorothy Duchene who disappeared.” She went on to tell him about the missing woman and the theory she and Cherry and the others had discussed at the Roost. “It could be her. The clothing is the right time period.”
“But the ghost isn’t being…destructive, is it? What happens during these—uh—visits?”
“They don’t last very long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Rufus has only experienced it once—last night—and he wasn’t very keen on it. All that hair of his standing on end was quite a sight.”
“So you don’t believe you’re…in danger. From the ghost, I mean?”
Leslie grimaced. “So far, she just seems to be sort of throwing her weight around. So to speak. Loud, windy, creepy—but so far her bark is worse than her bite. It’s usually around two, two thirty. And there’s this music that’s always playing in the background…I feel like if I could place it, that might help.”
“Can you sing it or hum it? Maybe I can help.”
“I can do better than that—I actually recorded it on Monday night. It’s not great sound quality, but you can hear it if you listen hard.” She went over to stand next to him, maneuvering through her phone to find the voice memo. “Here, listen. Cherry and Orbra didn’t recognize it, but maybe you will.”
He did so, several times, as she mashed avocado, lemon, cumin, salt, and pepper into guacamole.
“It’s definitely familiar. Right on the tip of my ear, so to speak,” Declan finally said. “Maybe it will come to me later. By the way, did you ever find the pink velvet wrap that is missing?”
The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3) Page 18
