Chapter 12 Twelve #2
Ciaran laughed and adjusted the strap. “It doesn’t pain me much now,” he amended. “But it probably will do tomorrow.”
“That’s good.” She winced. “Not that it’ll hurt tomorrow, but that it doesn’t hurt now.”
He chuckled, and the rumble of it filled the air between them.
She mentally thumped her forehead with a fist, repeatedly, as if it would help unwind her tongue.
On the outside, all she did was tug her sleeves down over her hands and twist the cuffs around and around her fingers.
His gaze drifted down to her hands and she froze, then dropped them to her sides.
Don’t start stubbing your toe in the dirt next, she told herself.
All the snarky words she normally had around him had dried up. “It looked like a bad fall.”
“Aye, it was a cheap shot.” Ciaran’s voice was suddenly soft. “Jal, I—“ He moved closer, and put a finger under her chin to bring her gaze to his.
His fingers were gentle as they slid across her skin to cup her cheek.
A warmth seeped into her from his touch, and she leaned into it as if she could draw in more, though she was far from cold.
It would only take a step, maybe two, and she would be in his arms, but her feet wouldn’t move.
She could only look up at him and watch what she could only describe as wonder flicker across his face.
“I’m a patient man, Jal,” he said softly. “But even I have limits. There’s something here I think, between us, and I think we should see where it could go.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but that would be an even more bitter lie. Much as she hated to admit it, that thread between them had been growing stronger. Enough that the air almost crackled with energy any time he was near.
He closed some of the distance between them. “If you’ll let me in.”
Standing half in the shadows with her back to the bleachers, and him crowding her front, she should have felt caged in and maybe she did, but not in the way she’d expected.
Instead of trying to get away before the lid on the bad memories started to lift, she forced her feet to remain rooted in place, and took a deep breath to keep her heart from racing too much.
The brush of his thumb across her lips brought the butterflies back in her belly, each wingbeat sending a pulse of heat between her legs.
Slowly, she placed a hand on his chest, his heart beat a furious rhythm under her fingers. His skin was warm, his jersey still damp from the exertion of the game, but she didn’t care. All the while, her eyes remained locked on his, the amber depths dark and curious.
He bent closer, but stopped a few inches away, waiting. For what? For her to give him a signal? For her to close the gap and take what she wanted from him?
The tip of her tongue darted out, wetting lips suddenly gone dry, and brushed against the pad of his thumb still poised at the corner of her mouth.
His eyes darkened at the contact and that was all she needed.
Her hand curled, taking a fistful of his shirt, and pulled.
His hands burrowed into her hair, tipping her head back further as his lips captured hers.
A soft growl escaped as he opened his mouth to slide his tongue along the seam of her lips, begging her to open to him. She did, and he swept in, his tongue exploring hers, seeking to taste every part of her mouth.
He pulled back to change the angle of the kiss, but before he could capture her lips again, a voice called from across the field. “Hey Scotty, you forgot your— oops, sorry.”
“Ignore him,” Ciaran muttered against her lips, the words tickling her sensitive skin.
But the bubble that they had been existing in had popped. Jal settled back on her heels, giving them just enough distance, though she didn’t ease her grip on his shirt, nor did he drop his arms. “This better be worth it,” Ciaran grumbled.
Her answering chuckle had a good dose of self-consciousness mixed in. As his friend drew closer, she removed her hand and rubbed a knuckle over her lips, which still tingled from his kiss, and the stubble that covered his jaw.
His hands slid away, though the one in her hair only went as far as her shoulder.
He turned her gently to face the man who approached wearing an open zippered sweatshirt over a matching red jersey stretched tight across his broad, burly chest. His graying brown hair was plastered to his temples with sweat.
“Aye, Cliff, what is it?” Ciaran demanded as the man drew even with them.
“You forgot your phone.” Cliff held up the item in question. It had a navy-blue case and a cracked screen.
Ciaran frowned and pulled a phone from his shorts pocket, its intact screen lighting up with the movement to show a photo of two toddlers, lying head-to-head in a grassy field. He caught the direction of her gaze, and he gave her a look that said explanations would come later.
But the photo remained seared in her mind. Did he have kids?
He squinted at the phone in Cliff’s hand. “That’s Mike’s phone, you numpty.” Ciaran chastised. “Remember? The screen broke last autumn when you knocked it off the bar at Darcy’s during that World Series game?”
Cliff looked down at the phone in his hand and huffed a not-entirely-believable laugh of surprise. “You know what? You’re right.”
Jal resisted the urge to hide her grin in the folds of Ciaran’s sleeve and covered her mouth with her hand instead. Her movement seemed to draw his attention finally to her.
Cliff smiled then lifted an eyebrow at Ciaran. “Going to introduce us, Scotty?” There was a twinkle in his slate blue eyes that said he knew who she was, or at least suspected. She wondered what Ciaran might have said to the other man.
Beside her, Ciaran stiffened slightly, and she glanced up to see his jaw was tight enough that Jal was afraid his molars would crack. “Cliff, this is Jal,” he replied gesturing between them. “Jal, this is Cliff, my boss.”
Cliff’s meaty hand engulfed hers as they shook briefly in greeting. “That’s such a unique name, Jal,” he said, pronouncing her name with an odd emphasis. “Short for anything?”
She shook her head. “Nope, just Jal.”
Cliff smiled and stood there looking at them, at Ciaran’s arm around her shoulders, while he twirled an unlit cigar around his fingers.
Ciaran cleared his throat, which seemed to jolt Cliff out of whatever thoughts he’d been lost in. “Well, I’ll leave you to—“ He snapped his fingers. “Wait, I remember what else I came over here for. The corporate challenge folks need you to sign out the trophy before it can leave the event.”
“Can’t you do it?” Ciaran asked, his eyes narrowed at his friend, likely smelling the same rat she was. His expression was telling his friend to “bugger off” if that was the right phrase. She was pretty sure she’d heard it in a movie somewhere.
The sparkle in his eyes as Cliff shook his head was the only confirmation that he saw the daggers being shot his way. Beyond his eyes, the man had one hell of a poker face. “Nope, they said only the captain could, or the person who filled out the initial registration paperwork, who is also you.”
Ciaran dropped his head and sighed. He turned his chin to look at Jal through his eyelashes. “Can you wait a minute?”
“I should really get going,” she replied. Not that she had anything else to do, but the weight of Ciaran’s boss’s scrutiny made her feel like little needles were pricking her everywhere at once.
Ciaran nodded as if he understood and his grip on her shoulder tightened slightly, but only for a moment, before he stepped back.
He hitched the strap of his bag a little higher on his shoulder and pivoted toward his friend so the bag swung and hit Cliff squarely between the shoulders, forcing him to stumble.
“Oh sorry, Cliff.” Ciaran said, but there was no remorse in his voice. Jal hid a chuckle behind her hand.
Ciaran clapped a hand on his boss’s shoulder, further disrupting the man’s balance and steered him back toward the field, and the small group milling around a folding table, the sunlight glinting off the small bowl at the top of the trophy.
He glanced back at Jal with an apologetic twist to his mouth, though his eyes held a wicked promise in their amber depths.
A shiver went through her that had nothing to do with the temperature and she smirked, lifting a hand to shoo them away with a flick of her wrist.
Ciaran grinned and turned away, wrapping a hand around the back of his friend’s neck to direct him forward, though Jal was sure he was suppressing the urge to squeeze. Hard.
Jal didn’t blame them as she watched them step up to the table. Ciaran glanced back, and when he noticed that she was still there, the smile that spread on his face was wide, showing lots of straight, white teeth.
She lifted her hand in a wave, then headed up the path that led in the direction of her apartment. She turned her head to glance back over her shoulder. Ciaran was still watching her, a pen in his hand, as she winked and strode away.