Well Met(63)

The girl I wanted . . . Those words sent a thrill through my chest. But they weren’t enough. They were past tense. Wanted. Not want. “What does Mitch have to do with this? He sent me over here, you know. To see you.” I took my phone out of my pocket and waved it at him. “How do you think I got your address?”

“He sent you . . .” Simon shook his head at the floor. He scrubbed a hand across his cheek, a gesture I had come to recognize after all this time knowing him. He was upset, at a loss. “Why would he do that?” His eyes snapped up to mine, and the intensity in them made me catch my breath. “Did he think it would sound better coming from you?”

“Did he think what would sound better?”

“Telling me to back off. To leave you alone.”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“Well, you and he . . .” His mouth snapped shut, and he suddenly looked lost. Not as lost as I felt, but he was catching up. “Aren’t you and he . . . ?”

“No.” But understanding started to shine through the cloud of my confusion. “No, we aren’t.”

“No,” he repeated. He looked a little longingly at the rum bottle, and when he looked back at me the longing lingered in his eyes. “Then why has he been all over you, hugging you, asking you out?”

“As a friend. He’s been . . .” I shrugged. “He’s been trying to make me part of the group.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And why were you talking about what was under his kilt?”

A surprised laugh spilled out of me. I’d forgotten about that. “Are you kidding? Every time you flip him over your shoulder the world can see he’s wearing bike shorts.”

A smile played around his mouth, and his exhale almost sounded like a laugh. “But then today, at the chess match. He was challenging me, acting like you and he . . .” He shook his head as realization hit. “He wasn’t telling me to back off,” he said. “He was telling me to fight for you.” The tension eased out of his shoulders. “I’ve known that guy for more than twenty years, and this is the first time he’s ever been subtle.”

The thought of Mitch being subtle made me smile, but when Simon looked up at me the smile faded from my face. The air between us was charged with a kind of energy I’d never felt before as a silence settled over the kitchen. I slipped my phone back in my pocket, and my fingers brushed against the scrap of paper. The fortune. Ask the right question. We’d cleared a lot of air between us, but I hadn’t obeyed the fortune. Not yet.

The deep breath I took didn’t shake at all. I took a step closer to him, and his eyes sharpened like lasers as I approached. “Do you want to kiss me again?” Everything inside of me started singing when I said it, so yes. This was the question I needed to ask. “Not as Captain Blackthorne. Not kissing Emma.” My voice was casual, conversational, like someone suggesting a lunch date. His eyes stayed fixed on me as I took one of his hands between both of mine and held on tight. “But you. Simon. And me. Emily.”

“Yes.” The word was pushed out on a shallow breath. But he didn’t reach for me. He stood motionless and watched me move his hand, placing it on my waist like I was positioning us for a dance. He slid it around to my back, letting out a strangled sound when his fingertips met my bare skin. “Christ, Emily, you have no idea how much I want to . . .” He swallowed hard and didn’t finish the sentence.

His hand was warm on the small of my back. He tightened his grip, and I followed the gentle pull until I was standing in his arms, his other hand curving around my shoulder. His T-shirt under my hands was as soft as it looked, and he sucked in a breath as I touched him. I felt the thump of his heart under my palm, and the speed and the intensity of it reassured me. I wasn’t alone in this.

As I looked up at him I realized I wasn’t nervous anymore. I didn’t feel unsure. I stared up into his eyes, that kaleidoscope of brown and green and gold, and I had only one more question to ask.

“Will you kiss me again?”

“Yes.”





Sixteen




But Simon didn’t kiss me. Not at first. His gaze roamed over my face, as if amazed that I was there in his arms. I pictured us standing here in his kitchen until the world ended around us, just staring. After somewhere between thirty seconds and an eternity he ran his hand down my arm and up over my shoulder again. I shivered under his touch as his journey continued, up the side of my neck to trace my jawline, catching some stray curls that had come loose from my hasty updo. He was taking his time, enjoying this, but if he didn’t get on with it I was going to scream. He dipped his head down slowly and my breath froze in my chest. His exhalation was warm against my lips in that split second before he kissed me again.

He tasted like rum and heat. His mouth didn’t press so much as caress, one small kiss after another as we got used to the feel and the taste of each other. I didn’t remember reaching for him, but suddenly my hands were cradling his face, his beard rough against my palms, his groan vibrating against my lips. The small kisses became longer with each touch, each drag of his mouth on mine, and when his tongue grazed against mine those kisses turned electric. Tentative tasting became more intense exploring with tongues and lips and teeth, and sinking into his kiss was the easiest thing in the world. Breathing became something that happened to other people, and by the time we both gasped for air he’d pressed me against the kitchen counter, the edge of it hard against my lower back.