Chapter Twelve
As Beth watched Wilder unbutton his shirt, all rational thoughts slipped from her brain, her mouth went dry and her body got warm. His fingers deftly unfastened the second button and, imagining how those strong, calloused hands might feel against her skin, she felt a quiver low in her belly.
She wondered if he would open a third button, and then a fourth, so that she could discover if his broad chest and flat stomach were as chiseled in real life as they were in her imagination.
Because yes, she’d imagined and fantasized about the handsome cowboy undressed.
Dreamed about him—about his naked body entwined with her own.
And woken up embarrassed and ashamed to realize that she could harbor such wanton feelings for a man who’d been her sister’s lover—and was very likely the father of Leighton’s baby.
Beth swallowed hard and tried to quash the lustful thoughts that teased her body and her brain.
“What?” she asked, when she realized he’d spoken but she hadn’t heard a single word.
“I asked if it was okay for me to hang out here with you.”
“It’s your house,” she reminded him.
“But you’ve got the remote.”
“That means I’m in charge?”
He smiled at her dubious tone. “At least in charge of the TV.”
She handed the controller to him. “I should probably head up to bed, anyway.”
“It’s not even ten thirty,” he pointed out, his voice tinged with amusement.
“Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. Because even a killjoy like her knew that going to bed at ten thirty on New Year’s Eve was beyond lame. “I guess I could stay up a little longer. But I’m going to apologize in advance.”
“For what?”
“The fact that I’ll probably fall asleep before the clock strikes midnight.”
He gasped, feigning shock. “On New Year’s Eve?”
“Cody was up three times last night,” she told him. “I’m convinced, by the way he’s been gnawing and drooling, that a couple of teeth will be breaking through soon.”
“Is that what the book says to watch for—gnawing and drooling?”
“There isn’t one book that’s the authority on everything, and every baby is different,” she chided. “But yes, those are generally recognized as common signs of teething.”
“If you don’t think you’ll make it to midnight, maybe we should crack open a bottle of champagne now and toast the New Year along with Chicago,” he suggested.
“Sounds good to me,” she said.
He retrieved a bottle of bubbly and a couple of glasses, popping the cork with an ease that attested to experience.
And didn’t that immediately highlight the differences in their lifestyles, that he could make an offhand suggestion and know the fancy wine would be chilling?
If she ever expressed a spontaneous desire for champagne, the spontaneity would invariably be lost as she made a hurried trip to buy it, with her fingers crossed that the local store sold it already chilled.
He could have chosen to sit anywhere. There were plenty of options in the spacious room: the love seat adjacent to the couch she occupied, one of a trio of armchairs, or even the other end of the big sofa. For some reason, he chose to sit right beside her, so close that their thighs were touching.
He handed her a flute of champagne, tapped the rim of his own glass to hers and said, “Happy Almost New Year.”
“Happy Almost New Year,” she echoed, and took a tentative sip of the bubbly.
The cool and crisp liquid tickled as it slid down her throat, causing an almost irresistible urge to giggle. She swallowed the urge along with another sip of champagne.
“So how does this year compare to your last New Year’s Eve?” Wilder asked her.
“It’s almost a carbon copy,” she admitted. “But with a much better bottle of wine.” And the unexpected company of a very handsome cowboy—though she wisely kept that part to herself.
“You mean you sat at home watching other people celebrate the occasion?”
“I wasn’t lying when I said parties aren’t really my thing.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I’ve just never felt comfortable around a lot of people. I prefer more intimate gatherings.” Then, realizing how her words might be misconstrued, she hastened to clarify, “I didn’t mean intimate intimate. I only meant that I prefer smaller groups and quieter settings.”
And then, to stop herself from babbling even more, she lifted her glass to her lips again.
“Intimate should definitely involve a smaller number,” he agreed, with a wink. “My preference has always been two.”
She couldn’t agree, because he might interpret that as flirting. And she couldn’t disagree, because if she suggested “or three or four,” he might think she was advertising an adventurous spirit she did not have.
“Or one,” she said, deciding that was a safe option and also a truer reflection of her status.
It wasn’t until his lips curved that she realized her mistake.
“You like to go it alone sometimes, Beth?”
She could really use a blast of Montana wind to cool her cheeks right now. In the absence of that, she sipped more of the chilled wine.
“I’m going to stop talking now,” she decided.
His warm chuckle skimmed over her like a caress. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said.
“I think I embarrassed myself,” she acknowledged, and was grateful when Wilder steered the conversation to more neutral topics.
They talked about books and movies and the successes or failures of books turned into movies.
Then they debated the merits of favorite sports teams, with Wilder insisting that the Cowboys would win another Super Bowl before the Stars took another run at the Stanley Cup and Beth confiding that she’d rather watch the Rangers over the Mavericks any day of the week.
He shook his head. “Clearly you know nothing about basketball.”
She narrowed her gaze. “What’s your foundation for that claim? The fact that I prefer baseball?”
“And that watching baseball is about as exciting as watching paint dry.”
“Clearly you know nothing about baseball,” she told him.
“What I do know is that it’s almost midnight and you’re still awake,” he noted, tipping the bottle to pour more champagne into her glass.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” she said.
“I’m glad I didn’t bore you to sleep.”
“You didn’t bore me at all. In fact, I quite enjoyed your company tonight.”
“Who would have guessed that we could spend an evening together without sniping at one another?” he mused.
“We’ve spent a lot of time together over the past few days without sniping at each other,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, it turns out that you’re not quite as uptight as I originally thought.”
“And I’ve been pleasantly surprised to discover that you’re not as immature and irresponsible as my first impressions led me to believe.”
He smiled. “There it is.”
Her brows drew together. “I think I missed something.”
“Because you haven’t been paying attention,” he chided.
“To what?”
“You’ve got passion and spirit, Lisbeth Ames. But—one early-morning outburst aside—I usually only see it in defense of your sister or your nephew. I’m happy to know that you’re also capable of fighting back in defense of yourself.”
“I thought we were trying not to fight.”
“It turns out I enjoy our verbal sparring,” he admitted.
“Given the choice, I’d rather be a lover than a fighter,” she said.
Wilder’s brows lifted. “Is that so?”
“I didn’t mean—” She huffed out a breath. “I always seem to be putting my foot in my mouth around you.”
“Let’s see if we can find a better use for your mouth,” Wilder suggested, as he set both of their champagne glasses aside.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t a deep or passionate kiss—more a tentative exploration. And yet, when his lips brushed over hers, a jolt of arousal surged through her body, leaving hot tingles in its wake.
She lifted her eyes and saw that he was looking as shaken by the chemistry as she felt. Then his gaze shifted to her mouth, as if he maybe wanted to try that again.
Because she wanted the same thing, she took the initiative this time and leaned forward to kiss him.
And he responded. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her onto his lap so that her knees straddled his hips and her breasts tingled where they touched his chest, her nipples stiffening to tight peaks.
She pressed herself closer, relishing the feel of his rock-hard body. She slid her hands over his taut, sculpted shoulders to link them behind his head, her fingertips tangling in the ends of his hair.
He opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, exploring the sensitive inner recesses with his oh-so-talented tongue. She rocked against him, subconsciously mimicking the rhythm of mating, until he clamped his hands on her hips, stifling her moments.
“I’m going to embarrass myself if you don’t stop that,” he warned.
“I don’t want to stop,” she said. “But—”
“Shh.” He brushed his lips gently over hers now. “Let’s not analyze all the reasons this might be a mistake.”
Then he nuzzled her throat, and the erotic scrape of his stubble against her skin made her shiver.
“But it would be, wouldn’t it? Getting naked together would further complicate an already complicated situation.”
“Or maybe it would simplify it,” he suggested.
“How do you figure?”
“Sex is simple—the most primal and essential connection between a man and a woman,” he explained, as he slid his hands under her sweater and up her torso to cup her breasts.
And the feel of those calloused palms moving over her skin was even more delicious than she’d imagined.
She moaned softly.
“I really like those noises you make when I touch you,” he told her.
“Then keep touching me,” she suggested.
“I don’t think I can stop.”
He rose to his feet then, effortlessly lifting her with him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles as he carried her toward the stairs.
She felt like a fairy-tale princess in the arms of her Prince Charming.
Except that Wilder wasn’t her anything and there was no happily-ever-after with him in her future.