Chapter Ten #4
Then Braham’s hand came up to the back of my neck.
Large. Warm. Certain. His palm spanned the base of my skull, fingers pressing into the short hair there, and the kiss stopped being quick.
It went deep. Unhurried. Thorough. His mouth opened against mine, and I let him in, and the heat of it unspooled down my spine like something I’d been carrying too long.
My hand fisted in the front of his suit jacket—not pushing, just holding, anchoring us both against the glass and the forty floors of empty air behind it.
We leaned into it. Both of us. Against the backdrop of the city going gold outside the window, the light catching the edge of his jaw, the line of his throat, the way his pulse jumped under my thumb when I found it.
He made a sound. Low. Rough. The kind of noise that lived in the space between a groan and a growl, and I felt it against my mouth, against my chest, everywhere.
His other hand found my hip, grip firm, not restraining, just present, and I pressed into it because I wanted to and because I could and because for once, for this one moment, nothing else in the world mattered except the fact that his mouth was on mine and his hand was in my hair and the city was burning gold behind us, and I was exactly where I wanted to be.
From the other room, Grace woke up. Not the slow, gradual stirring of a baby easing out of sleep. The specific, indignant pitch of someone who had been asleep long enough and had opinions about it. A full-volume, lung-clearing wail that cut through the penthouse like a fire alarm.
I pulled back. Braham’s hand stayed on my neck for a second longer, thumb brushing the line of my jaw, and then he let go, and the air between us felt charged, live, the way the air feels after lightning.
I said, very clearly, into the general direction of the kitchen: “Your timing is fucking abysmal, you realize that? Absolutely criminal. I’m putting it in your permanent record.
First day of kindergarten, they’re going to pull your file, and it’s going to say ‘chronically terrible timing’ and nobody will want to sit with you at lunch. ”
Braham made a sound. Against all reasonable expectation, against every law of physics and wolf biology and the particular gravity of a man who did not, as a rule, express amusement visibly—he laughed.
Short. Real. Surprised out of him like something he hadn’t planned to give, the kind of laugh that changed the lines of his face completely.
I filed it away with the focused attention of a man collecting evidence. Exhibit A: Wolfe, B., capable of spontaneous laughter. Conditions: kissing, baby interruption, profanity. Frequency: unknown. Worth further study.
I went to get Grace. Braham followed without being asked, without being told, the way he did everything—like my movement was a fact he had already accounted for.
We ended up on the wide leather couch in the living room, Grace between us in the bouncy seat on the cushion, the late light painting everything the color of honey.
Her face was pink and furious, fists balled, the particular outrage of a creature who had been asleep and was now awake and found this state of affairs personally offensive.
I bopped the bouncy seat. She stopped mid-wail, blinked at me, and then—because babies are mercurial and terrifying—blew a raspberry and went for the yellow triangle like nothing had happened.
Braham’s phone was face-down on the coffee table. My laptop stayed closed. The manuscript could wait. Drew and Eli could figure out their own problems for a few hours.
I stretched my legs out, feet on the coffee table, and Braham didn’t comment.
He just leaned back, one arm along the couch behind me, not touching, just present, and watched Grace bat at my finger with her whole fist, brow furrowed, deeply committed to the project of making contact with something that was deliberately staying just out of reach.
The city burned gold outside the glass. Mt. Hood held the last of the light. The penthouse was quiet except for the soft creak of the bouncy seat springs and the occasional wet sound of Grace attempting to eat her own hand.
Nobody mentioned the window. Nobody mentioned the kiss.
Nobody mentioned the fact that we were sitting on a couch together like we’d been doing it for years instead of days, and it didn’t feel strange, and it didn’t feel forced, and it didn’t feel like anything except exactly what it was: three people in a room, one of them very small and very loud and very much the reason the other two were there at all.
I caught Braham watching us. Not the controlled, measured look he usually wore, but something softer. Something that lived in the space between his eyebrows, in the set of his mouth, in the way his weight settled into the couch like he’d decided, finally, that he could afford to be still.
Grace grabbed my finger, held on, and squeezed with all the strength her six-pound body could muster, which wasn’t much, but she committed to it completely, the way she committed to everything.
I squeezed back, gently, just enough to let her know I was there.
Braham’s hand found the back of my neck again, not pulling, just resting. Warm. Certain.
The day closed on all three of us in the quiet, the city burning gold outside the glass, and for once, for this one perfect afternoon, nothing was chasing us.