Chapter 5 #2
“I visit the children now and then. They’re cooped up for weeks with little to do but stare at the walls.” He shrugged, ducking his head in a sheepish way that did him far too many favors. “I put on a show, throw a few punches, flex my arms when they ask. It makes them laugh.”
Well.
That was…attractive.
“I’m certain it does,” she said curtly. “You have always been a talented showman.”
He stepped a little closer, studying her with cautious amusement, as though uncertain whether she'd dissolve into tears or challenge him to a duel with a trowel. She wasn’t certain herself, which only added to her discomfort.
“And Nurse Mary…” He spoke slowly, the smirk fading toward the unfamiliar terrain of vulnerability. “She cared for my mother before she died. We were remembering her.”
Oh.
Oh.
Every one of her ridiculous theories crumbled into a mortifying heap.
“Where is she now?” she asked in a small voice.
“She’s inside with Granddad.”
Her stomach sank even lower. “I hope he hasn’t fallen ill.”
“Not at all. Just eighty years old and determined to live until Octogenarian Day. He coughed once last night, and he’s convinced he’ll perish before the week is out. I asked Nurse Mary to humor him a little before setting him straight.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. Unfortunately, the situation remained unchanged. She was still entirely in the wrong.
“I’m a monster,” she declared.
“You’re not,” he said, stepping so close she could catch the faint, earthy scent of his aftershave.
Close enough to spot flecks of green in his brown eyes she’d never noticed before.
“You’re spirited and determined and forthright.
To be honest, I’m not sure whether I should applaud your honesty or…
” He shook his head slightly, falling silent.
“Or what?” she rasped, the question a sharp, instinctive tug on the heavy stillness stretching between them.
Drew’s gaze dragged slowly over her face, searching her features for an answer. What answer he hoped to find, she couldn’t say. She stared back, her heart hammering against her ribs, all too aware of how thick and humid the air was around them.
“Or kiss you,” he finished.
There was no teasing glint in his eye, no smug curl to his mouth—quite the opposite, really. No one had ever looked at her after she'd made a complete fool of herself with anything approaching tenderness. Yet Drew looked as though he'd been given something entirely unbidden and entirely precious.
Her? Was she precious to him?
The agonizing line separating what had been and what could be tautened to a knife’s edge. One of them had to cross it.
“Kiss me,” she blurted.
The words flew out so quickly she scarcely recognized them as her own, but before embarrassment could claim her, she caught hold of the textured corduroy of his lapels and tugged.
Drew caught his balance with a sharp intake of breath.
They were toe-to-toe, hip-to-hip, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from hers.
“Are you certain?” he asked. There was a novel roughness to his tone that sent heat blazing through her core.
“Absolutely certain.”
She surged forward at the exact instant he tilted in, their mouths meeting in a jarring, unceremonious collision that felt nothing like the daydream she’d indulged in over the past few weeks. No matter. She was far too stubborn to let a slight impact ruin this.
Before he could pull back to assess the damage, she softened her grip on his coat, tilted her head, and pressed back in with a slower, far more deliberate precision.
The immediate, full warmth of his mouth against hers nearly made her knees buckle.
They were kissing! Not sniping, not teasing, but kissing.
And he seemed to be enjoying it. A low murmur vibrated against her lips as his hand slid down her spine, splaying firmly across her lower back to lock her against him.
The trouble was, she couldn’t seem to find the rhythm.
Every time he shifted, she tried to follow, to mold herself to him.
But she was always an agonizing fraction of a second behind, her brain intent on tripping up her instincts.
She was mortifyingly aware of how tightly her fingers were once again clutching his coat, of the embarrassing little pants escaping her throat.
Could he tell? Could he feel how out of her depth she was?
In a bid to convince him she knew what she was doing, she attempted an alluring flick of her tongue.
Instead, her tooth snagged his lower lip.
He let out a grunt of pain, and she jerked backward, stunned by her lack of ability.
Drew’s lower lip was visibly reddened, bearing the distinct, damning mark of her front teeth.
Horror instantly doused any remaining heat in her veins.
“I…” She forced her eyes away from his lip—and away from the insane urge to lean back in and lick the spot to soothe it. “I’d better leave before I make matters worse.”
She spun on her heel, every single nerve screaming for immediate evacuation. How, precisely, was she expected to face him again? She had accused him of faithlessness, thrown herself at him, and then proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that she was catastrophically bad at kissing.
“Cecelia, wait.”
Absolutely not. It was time to disappear, spend the rest of the summer avoiding Fourteenth Street, and devote herself exclusively to her experiments. She wrapped her fingers around the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. She frowned and yanked harder, but the door refused to budge.
“It's locked,” she said in surprise. She leaned in, peering through the small glass pane. A flash of movement in the yard caught her eye. “And your Granddad is hobbling away as fast as he can.”