Chapter 12 #4
The temperature in the room must’ve dropped because the natural gas fireplace, which was set to a thermostat, suddenly flickered more brightly, blue and orange flames springing to life in a mesmerizing sway.
Grant slowly, completely naturally, like it was something they did every day, reached over and laced his fingers through hers. Grover lifted his head, looked at them, then sighed contentedly and dropped his head again.
“Exactly,” Grant whispered.
It didn’t feel wrong to hold Grant’s hand exactly, yet Madeline was aware of something quivering within her, unease wrestling with . . . what? Desire, that’s what.
Admitting, recognizing, identifying, the feeling that had been buzzing through her all night, even just to herself, shocked her—but she didn’t pull her hand away until it occurred to her that while the flames dancing between them might never burn down, the night was quickly winding on.
If she didn’t want to be too tired to enjoy her hopefully busy second day, she should head out as she’d kept saying she was going to earlier.
She said as much to Grant and texted for a cab, hoping that it wouldn’t take forever but also wishing the night didn’t have to end.
“This was really nice,” Madeline murmured a few minutes later.
“It was,” Grant said, then grinned. “Like it will be every time you come over.”
A warm lightness that had nothing to do with alcohol bubbled through Madeline, and when Grant lumbered to his feet and offered her his hand, she took it and allowed him to pull her up to standing too.
“Next time though . . . ” Grant trailed off, teasing suggestion in both his voice and his warm gaze.
“Next time, what?”
“Next time we drink tequila or something, not wine.”
“Is that so?”
“That is so.”
“Why? I thought you like me when I drink wine.”
“I do.” He was so close to her that she could smell the woodsy soap he used—another thing she liked about him, she noted. His scent. “It makes you philosophical.”
“So why tequila?”
His eyes glinted, and his voice was a purr. “Because screw philosophical. I want to see you horny.”
A surprised-but-amused bark of laughter escaped before she could clamp it back.
His gaze shifted to her mouth—then lifted to meet her eyes again.
Something in Madeline’s stomach leaped in a way that it hadn’t in .
. . years and years. He released her hand and touched her chin, tilting it up.
His lips grazed hers, so softly at first that she could almost convince herself it was just her imagination.
But then his hands rested on her hips and gently tugged her closer.
She stumbled over one of her discarded shoes, bumping against him in a weird, unsexy way—and that’s how she knew the moment was real.
Her imagination would’ve made her alluring and sensual for her first kiss in forever, or, at least, not the most uncoordinated ninny known to mankind!
Her extreme klutzy awkwardness would’ve made her laugh—except suddenly, Grant was pulling her tight against him, and she felt .
. . a lot of things, but the urge to laugh wasn’t one of them.
He kissed her more deeply, the pressure of his mouth asking more from her, his tongue seeking hers.
All sorts of long-sleeping things within Madeline started to awaken . . . and then a horn honked outside, and headlights flashed.
Her cab had arrived. She didn’t know if she was relieved or vexed that, for probably the first time ever in her life, her taxi was on time.
She and Grant broke apart, and as they did, he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek for a heartbeat.
Instinctively, she turned into his touch, pressing her lips to his warm palm.
He inhaled sharply—and simultaneously, old memories besieged her.
Something cracked inside her. That was how she’d kissed Lyle—this.
She shook her head and all the lovely, stupid, wine-drenched forgetfulness and camaraderie she’d been enjoying drained away in one unsteadying, nauseating rush.
She inwardly cursed herself—and Grant too—for wrecking their tentative start at friendship with this . . . nonsense.
The cab honked again. “I’ve got to go. I don’t want it to leave without me.” She was already in motion, pulling on her shoes, scooping up her purse, heading toward the door—
“You could . . . stay.”
That stopped her. “No,” she said too vehemently, shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t. I can’t.”
Their eyes locked and held.
“I’m—” She swallowed hard, horrifyingly close to sobbing. “I’m sorry. I can’t do . . . any of this.”
Looking confused, which Madeline completely understood, embarrassed, which made Madeline feel terrible—Grant had nothing to be embarrassed about—and kind of shell-shocked, again something Madeline related to, too much, Grant nodded once.
“No problem. I get it.” But then he spoke again, hesitantly and with a wince, as if he knew the answer already. “So, about Monday . . .?”
She nodded—then shook her head. “Yeah, it’s off. I’m so sorry. I . . . can’t.” She fled.