“I remember that!” Darby laughed. “Did you have to sew a pencil case?”
“I did.”
She rolled her eyes. “My zip wouldn’t shut properly and the shape of it was more trapezoid than a rectangle.” She cocked her head. “What was yours like?”
“I made a fold-out case with separate pockets for pens and pencils, with loops to keep a ruler and other stuff, plus two perfectly aligned zippered compartments.”
“Shut the hell up,” she said. “You did not.”
He shrugged. “Discovered I had a knack for it. I liked the precision necessary to achieve a perfectly utilized product. If I hadn’t been fascinated with the amazing properties of fabric as a material, I probably would’ve ended up as a builder or an architect.”
“I bet there are a lot of happy brides who are glad you didn’t.”
“I never planned to sew wedding gowns.”
“What were you going to do once you’d graduated?”
“I was going to start a business to get my mum out of her factory job,” he said. “We planned to open a boutique catering for women who were either taller, shorter, or curvier than what the prevailing New Zealand clothing manufacturers said they should be.”
“That’s a great idea for an ever-growing market,” Darby said.
“My mum’s idea. She was six feet, half an inch tall in bare feet and said if she hadn’t been able to sew her own clothes, she’d be walking around pantless or in miniskirts.” He smiled at the memory. “She described her body type as Amazon warrior but with some junk in the trunk.”
“If that photo is anything to go by, she was beautiful,” Darby said quietly. “And not just because she was tall. She has what I call Audrey Hepburn beauty—inside and out—and it shows in the eyes. There’s a kindness in her gaze that tells me she only saw the good in the world and the best parts of people.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh and tucked a mussed strand of her hair behind her ear. “Anyway, that would be my guess.”
Reid’s gaze locked onto the curve of her jaw and her fingers that remained splayed on her neck, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands. A faint blueish vein pulsed under her skin by the heel of her palm, a fast flicker that caused his stomach muscles to tighten in response. Was her heart beating like a trapped bird because of their close proximity? His sure as hell was. Except his was bashing against his rib cage with the strength of an eagle.
He took a step toward Darby, and her shuttered gaze flew wide. She dropped the hand cupping her nape and braced it across her breasts, clutching at her opposite shoulder.
“Hugh asked me to dinner next week,” she said.
The soft pinkness of her mouth was a wonderland just waiting for a man to taste, and two beats passed before he had enough brain power to refocus on what words were coming out of it. Then another two seconds slithered by as he made sense of her statement.
That douche-canoe Hugh King wanted to get his smarmy hands on Darby? Because, regardless of what she thought his invitation meant, dinner wasn’t the only thing on the menu.
“Are you going?”
He’d enough experience with women to keep his voice level and with a hint of neutral curiosity. Try telling a bride outright that a bustle actually would make her ass look fat and she’d either flay your skin off or order a bustle and a six-foot train just to prove she could get her own way. Try warning Laura that just because a guy wore Harry Potter spectacles and looked as harmless as a spring lamb didn’t mean he was. And an attempt to convince Darby that Hugh King was a walking, talking asshole who wasn’t worth her time would only push her more in his direction.
“Yes.” A hint of defiance in her tone. “Of course I’m going.”
Was she expecting him to object? To order her to break the date and hop into his bed instead? He snorted mirthlessly on the inside, suspecting Darby didn’t do well with being ordered to do anything. A growing part of him liked the idea of the challenge.
“Just wondering why you felt the need for my approval,” he said.
Her pouty pink mouth sagged and her stance went in a blink of an eye from defensive to hands-on-hips offensive. That was more like it.
“I’m not asking for your approval,” she said.
“No? Why did you mention this date of yours, then?”
Other than some sort of test that he had no clue what answer to provide in the hopes of receiving an A rather than a D-minus.
Her gaze zipped to his left shoulder then back to meet his defiantly. “I was giving you a heads-up that I may not be available to help with the mock-up fittings next week.”
“What day is he is taking you to dinner?”
A crease appeared on Darby’s forehead between her eyebrows. “Um. We didn’t agree on any particular evening.”
Then Hugh was more of an idiot than he’d first thought. If he were asking Darby to dinner, he’d have locked her in to the day and time he could pick her up, before she changed her mind. He hated the crestfallen look that crossed her face, as if it had just occurred to her that maybe Hugh was stringing her along. He hated it, because more than anything he hated that some other guy had any sort of power over Darby’s feelings.
His back molars clicked together. “Gotta admit, Hugh doesn’t seem like your type.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Really? I’m curious as to what you think my type is.”
To be honest, he didn’t have a clue. Did she prefer buff bodybuilders, or guys of Italian descent? Men who wore Armani suits or tool belts? Sporty types, intellectual types, guys who had their own menagerie of stray animals? Or a guy with zero fucks to give about what her type was and too many fucks about what she’d feel like in his arms.
“Let me rephrase that,” he said, then stumped himself by not knowing how to verbalize the complicated brew of conflicting emotions gathering in his gut.
“Oh, please do. In words less than two syllables so I’ll be sure to understand.” The prickliness of her tone was reflected in the warning flash of her eyes.
Self-aware enough to pick out protectiveness, sexual attraction, and, yeah, a little jealousy from his emotions, Reid rocked forward on the balls of his feet. Somehow, in the past couple of minutes, the friend-zone-sized bubble of space around them was divided in half and they almost stood toe to toe.
“He won’t treat you right,” he said. “How you deserve to be treated.”
“And you’re an expert on how women want to be treated?” She held up a stop-sign palm. The spicy-sweet smell of her intensified as heat pumped off her skin in almost visible waves. She was alive with an electric current, and if he touched her now, it’d be akin to sticking a fork in a toaster. “Wait, let me guess. You think women want rose petals and bubbles, poetry and slow dancing, and for a man to kiss her like her lips were made of spun sugar.”
It was the instant Technicolor image of Hugh kissing her that unraveled his resolve to keep his cool.
“Tell me, how should a man kiss a woman after he’s taken her slow dancing and read her poetry?” Reid lurched a step closer to her, his hand gripping the edge of the metal table so hard it made his knuckles protest. “Just for curiosity’s sake.”
She blinked up at him, suddenly lost for words, it would seem. Color rose in her cheeks. “I, I, ah…” Her upper body tilted backward, but he shot out a hand and gripped her elbow, preventing her from escaping.
“You don’t know?” he said silkily. “Or you don’t know how a man should kiss you?”
He heard the hiss of breath drawn suddenly into her lungs and then expelled in a rush. “The only dance I know is a waltz and that’s after a month worth of lessons. I’m allergic to roses, I hate poetry, and I prefer a nice merlot to champagne.”
Reid refrained from pointing out she’d omitted her kissing preference because Darby’s gaze had dropped to the level of his mouth and lingered there for a fraction too long to be a coincidence. While he couldn’t say for sure how she wanted to be kissed—quick, slow, hesitant, or all in�
�he was pretty certain that right in this moment she wanted to be kissing him.
And regardless of the army of doubts marching through his veins, he couldn’t resist lowering his mouth to hers any more than a slingshot could stop a war. Her lips instinctively parted and yielded under his, surprise working in his favor. Then she stilled, a soft puff of air exhaled through her nostrils tickling his cheek. Would she pull away? He lightened the connection, brushing his top lip over her lush bottom one, reveling in the soft contours and the hint of dampness that provided the sexiest of friction.
Darby made a soft sound in the back of her throat, and he felt the aching vibration of it down to his toes. He let go of her elbow and cradled her jaw, stroking a light fingertip along the shell of her ear. She shivered at his touch and angled her chin so their mouths were once again realigned lip to lip. He took that as a sign that spun-sugar gentleness wasn’t a requirement.
“Like this?” He kissed her again, a succession of short, measured kisses that teased and promised heat but didn’t deliver it. He pulled back, the first real taste of her already a temptation he shouldn’t continue to indulge in. Yet he badly wanted to.
“Uh-huh.” He got some small satisfaction from the glazed look in her eyes.
“Is that all you want from a kiss, Darby?” Reid dipped his head but used his thumb instead of his lips to stroke over her mouth.
Her lips parted and suddenly her teeth nipped at the fleshy part of his thumb, the sensation shooting straight to his groin. It was his turn to gasp as her fingers hooked into the rolled-up cuff of his shirtsleeve. She used it to reel herself closer until their hips bumped together. Gone was the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. Now there was only challenge, daring him as much as he dared himself.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
Was it? Was it only his ego that made him want to give her more—a male attempting to mark a female as unavailable to another because he’d kissed her first? Did he have it in him to offer her more than a quick make-out session in order to prove that there was unequivocally a spark between them? Could be he was just overthinking things as usual and maybe he should shut the hell up and kiss the girl. As if reading his mind, Darby’s hands slid over the bunched muscles of his biceps and got a grip on his shirt collar.
“Well?”
She didn’t have to ask twice.
Reid shut the hell up, cut the safety net on his restraint, and let himself free-fall.
Chapter 8
Between the ages of five and ten, Darby’s parents tried to find extracurricular activities she’d enjoy. There was ballet—too disciplined. Guitar lessons—the strings hurt her fingers. Brownies—she hated the uniform. She tried tennis, gymnastics, tap dancing, piano…finally in exasperation her mother threw up her hands. “Darby! Don’t start something you aren’t going to finish.”
Kissing Reid was better than gymnastics, ballet, and tennis for exercising her heart muscles. For making her stomach cartwheel and her lungs work overtime to get enough air into them. But kisses like these, ones that would lead them from the workshop into Reid’s big bed, were a bad idea.
No matter how much her feel-good hormones were doing a victory dance. Her butt bumped against the pattern-cutting table, and the front of her pressed so close to him she could describe the shape of his belt buckle—only that wasn’t the most interesting hardness she could identify. God, but the man knew his way around a woman’s mouth—and no doubt the rest of her, too, though he hadn’t had to touch any part of her body other than cupping her face to drive her halfway to Blissville.
Don’t start something you aren’t going to finish.
She pushed spread palms on Reid’s broad chest. Though, hmm. The push may’ve got muddled up into a rub for a moment when her skin registered the hard heat of him beneath her fingertips. She unsealed her mouth from his with the greatest of willpower and admitted to herself a little disappointment when he withdrew without complaint.
Her disappointment was tempered by savoring the thrill of his uneven breaths and still-very-aroused body pressed with delicious hardness to her still-very-aroused body. A body that not so long ago betrayed her in the worst possible way. A body she no longer entirely trusted to make decisions that would benefit the brain, heart, and soul of Darby along for the ride. Her body wanted Reid, but her brain, heart, and soul recommended caution.
She slipped out from between Reid and the table, suddenly feeling like she’d grown extra appendages, all of which she had no idea what to do with. She’d all but baited him into kissing her, but now that he had—and so damn well he’d more than proven whatever point he’d been making—what did that kiss mean?
A sneaked side-eye revealed Reid with folded arms, a crumpled forehead, and, well, let’s just say parts of him hadn’t got the memo from his brain yet.
He caught her staring and his eyebrow quirked up. “Sorry. Give me a minute,” he said.
As if she were somehow offended by his arousal.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. Heat pinpricked her cheeks and crept upward toward her ears. His gaze on her had gone from red-hot to chilly indifference in seconds, she was certain. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who’d thought about tapping the brakes. “I guess we got a little carried away. My bad.”
“Your bad? How is me kissing you your bad?”
“I kissed you back!”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “I guess you did.”
She scrambled to find a way to solidify the shifting sands under her feet. “Well, I shouldn’t have.”
Don’t start something you aren’t going to finish.
And if she were being completely honest with him and herself, she didn’t know if she could finish any sort of long-term relationship. He remained silent for a beat or two, gray-blue eyes leaving little ice trails across her reddened cheeks.
“Because of your dinner date with Prince Charming?” he asked.
Who? For a moment Darby had no idea who he was referring to. Then she twigged.
“Mm-hmm.” She rearranged the folds of Cinderella’s skirt that had started to slide off the table, the smooth cotton fabric rough against her fingertips. Smooth compared to Reid’s throat where she hadn’t been able to resist stroking the warm skin dotted with a short growth of stubble.
Stop it, Darby. He didn’t deserve her dithering, not after what he’d already been through with his mum.
He crinkled his nose and mouth, and gave a slow nod. “Then we can skip the just be friends pep talk, agreed?”
“Agreed.” Her stomach gave another cartwheel, but this time not in a good way.
“Sorted.” She caught a flash of white teeth as he covered the two steps between them with a smile. Darby couldn’t prevent a sharp indrawn breath at his sudden nearness, but he snatched up the skirt and without another glance headed toward the machines.
“There’s soda and water in the little fridge if you want one,” he said, walking away. “Or tea and coffee on the counter by the kettle. Help yourself.”
She stared after him as he lowered his tall frame behind his mum’s sewing machine and slid a few pins from the pincushion between his lips. He glanced up and met her gaze, the colorful pinheads bobbing against the smooth warm flesh that only minutes ago had been kissing her senseless.
“Tea, please,” he muttered around the pins.
Darby scuttled into the small kitchenette and flicked on the electric kettle. Fortunately, he couldn’t observe her shaking hands from where he sat as she placed two mugs in front of her and added tea bags. She closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind of everything but the hiss of the warming water and the buzz of the sewing machine.
Just friends. She couldn’t fault him on that description since she had, in fact, been about to dredge that cliché up. And by friends she meant the fair-weather kind that would last as long as the Cinderella production. Then she’d gracefully bow out of his life. Her breath gave a little hitch at the thought.
The kettle boiled
and Darby poured the water into the mugs. She’d no idea how Reid took his tea, but she stirred hers until it was the right shade of brown and then dumped the tea bag into the little trash can next to the counter. She froze as a crumpled gold-trimmed envelope on the floor behind the can caught her eye. Without thinking, she plucked it up and flipped it over to the handwritten front. It was addressed in beautiful cursive script to Reid, and attached to it was a bright pink Post-it Note.
PLEASE go, the note said. Mac and I would go with you if we could. You’ll regret it if you don’t go to your only aunt’s wedding. And it was signed by Laura.
Poking out of the torn envelope top was a gold-trimmed card. And sue her, but Darby couldn’t help reading the name embossed across the top:
Lynn Hudson.
Darby frowned. Same surname as Reid—so could this aunt be his dad’s sister? Or, hang on, his mother’s? Reid had never mentioned having a father. Unable to resist the pull of curiosity about a man she shouldn’t allow herself to be curious about, Darby skimmed the rest of the invitation. The wedding was two Saturdays away, and for some reason Reid had thrown the invitation in the trash.
The buzz of the machine suddenly stopped. Darby let the envelope slip through her fingers and fall behind the trash again. Reid sauntered into the kitchen and scooped up his mug, blowing gently on the tea.
“I can help with sewing every weekend from now until the production,” she said. “I’ve swapped my puppy preschool classes for the rest of the month with one of the vets.”
He nodded. “That’ll work.”
She slanted him another glance. “Next weekend and the weekend after good for you, then?” Not going to any family weddings or anything? she added silently.
“That’s what I said.” A V appeared between his eyebrows, then smoothed, his eyes gleaming. “Were you worried I might have hot dates of my own planned?”
“Nothing like that,” she said. “Just making a mental calendar note.” She picked up her cup and hustled out to the machine she’d been using and a side seam she’d screwed up that needed unpicking.
Love Everlasting Page 8
