Chapter Five
Kelsey
At six fifty-eight, I decide inviting Marc to dinner two nights in a row makes me look overeager. At six fifty-nine, I decide I am a grown woman who is allowed to be eager about whatever she pleases. At seven, he knocks.
I open the door wearing a rust-colored wrap dress I bought last spring and have never found the right occasion to wear. The fabric crosses over my breasts, hugs my waist, and falls softly over my hips. It is not subtle. Neither is the way Marc looks at me.
His gaze travels down and comes back slowly. He has showered and changed into dark jeans with a charcoal button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled over his forearms. His damp hair is combed back from his face, although one lock has already fallen over his forehead.
"Those aren't fish sticks," he says.
I glance behind me at the roasted chicken and vegetables on the counter. "How can you tell?"
"You wouldn't wear that dress for fish sticks."
"Maybe I dress for myself."
"I hope you do." He steps inside, his eyes returning to the neckline of my dress before meeting mine. "I'm still going to enjoy it."
I close the door while reminding myself how locks work. Turning one would take a second. Pulling Marc against me might take less.
He brought wine and a small bakery box from Millie's Café. The label on the box makes me smile, because everyone in Cady Springs knows Millie does not sell pastries after four unless she likes the person asking.
"How did you get this?"
"I explained that I was having dinner with the owner of Eight Pines."
"And she opened the case?"
"She asked several questions first, and answered a few of mine."
"How many questions did you have for Millie?"
"Enough that I now know your eighth-grade science project involved a potato, copper wire, and a small fire."
I close my eyes. "She told you that?"
"She said you've always been interested in electricity."
"My mother said I was banned from it until college."
Marc laughs as he sets the wine on the table.
The sound loosens the last of my nerves, and dinner becomes easier than it should.
We talk about Cady Springs, his crew, and the places his work has taken him.
He has spent winters in Wyoming, summers in Texas, and six miserable weeks in a windowless hotel outside Kansas City.
He tells the stories without trying to make himself sound important, but his pride appears when he speaks about difficult jobs completed safely and apprentices who became skilled electricians under his supervision.
"You like teaching," I say.
He considers that. "I like watching someone realize they can do work that scared them a month earlier."
"That sounds like teaching."
"It sounds better when you say it."
The warmth between us grows through dinner, fed by every look that lasts a few seconds too long. Marc's knee rests against mine beneath the table. Neither of us moves. When I stand to clear the dishes, his hand rests at the small of my back as he follows me into the kitchen.
"Leave them," he says.
"I don't leave dirty dishes overnight."
"It's eight-thirty."
"They don't improve with age."
"Kelsey."
Something in his voice makes me turn. Marc stands close enough that the front of his shirt brushes my breasts when I breathe. His hand remains on my back, broad and warm, while the other comes to rest on the counter beside me.
"I have been thinking about kissing you since yesterday," he says.
"Only since yesterday?"
"I didn't know you before then."
"Fair point."
"I came over here determined to take this slowly."
"How is that going?"
His thumb moves against my back. "Badly."
I could let him make the next move. The hunger in his eyes promises he will. But I am tired of standing in my own kitchen wondering how his mouth will feel, and I have never believed a woman must wait to be chosen. I place both hands on his chest, rise onto my toes, and kiss him.
Marc goes still for half a heartbeat. Then his arm closes around my waist and lifts me against him. His mouth takes over the kiss, firm and hungry, parting mine with a low sound that vibrates through his chest and into my palms.
Every thought I have had about this man proves inadequate.
He tastes like wine and the sweet pastry we shared.
His beard scrapes my chin, and one large hand spreads over my hip before sliding lower to cup my ass through the soft dress.
The possession in that touch sends heat racing between my thighs.
Marc backs me against the counter, careful even while he kisses me as if restraint is becoming painful. I feel the hard length of him against my stomach. My fingers move into his hair, tugging the dark strands until another rough sound leaves him.
"Kelsey." He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine. His breathing is as uneven as mine. "Tell me what you want."
I look at his mouth. "I want you to stop asking practical questions."
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because wanting you doesn't give me the right to decide for you."
His answer is admirable, but he has no idea how deeply I desire him. Marc could easily overwhelm me physically. He is strong enough to lift me onto the counter and broad enough to block out the rest of the room. Yet beneath every demanding kiss is the certainty that my choice matters to him.
I slide my hand behind his neck. "Then I want you to kiss me again."
He does. This kiss is slower and somehow hotter, his tongue moving against mine while his hand explores the curve from my waist to my thigh. When his fingers reach the bare skin beneath the hem of my dress, I open for him without hesitation.
The ring of my phone cuts through the room, and Marc's hand stills high on my thigh. I close my eyes, tempted to ignore it, until the special ringtone sounds again. Only registered guests reach me through that number after eight.
"I have to answer," I whisper.
He releases me immediately, although every hard line of his body protests. "Answer it."
The call is from Mrs. Lawson. Harold cannot find the television remote in Cabin Two. It takes me less than a minute to explain that it is inside the basket beneath the coffee table, but the interruption has returned enough sense to the room for me to recognize how quickly we were moving.
Marc watches me set down the phone. "You all right?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to leave?"
My body aches with the need to finish what we started, but desire is tangled with the electrical repair, our business agreement, and the knowledge that Marc's six weeks have already begun counting down.
"I think you should," I say.
Disappointment flashes in his eyes, followed by acceptance. "Okay."
"It isn't because I don't want you."
"I know." He steps close enough to touch his mouth to my forehead. "And when this happens, I don't want either of us wondering whether it was because you were scared about the cabins and I happened to be here."
I swallow against the tenderness of that. "You think very highly of yourself."
"I'm trying to. You make it difficult."
He leaves with one last kiss at the door. I lock it behind him and stand in the center of my kitchen, my dress twisted around my thighs and my lips swollen.
The dishes are still in the sink. For the first time in my adult life, I leave them there.