Heart-Shaped Hack(18)

“Would you like to come in?” Kate asked.

“I have to. It’s our second date. You can give me the grand tour since you barely let me inside last time. And don’t worry, I won’t overstay my welcome. A project I’m working on for one of my clients has monopolized my entire weekend, and I’m still not done.”

Once they were inside, Kate showed Ian around. Her one-bedroom apartment was tiny in comparison to the pricier, two-bedroom apartment she’d lived in for three years with Stuart, but she loved it. She’d picked out the furniture by herself, purchasing a couch that had an attached chaise, a soft oversized chair, and a plush, brightly colored fake-fur rug that gave her living room a funky, comfortable feel.

“Very nice,” Ian said.

They sat down on the couch.

“You know, this refusal to tell me your last name is making things awkward for me,” Kate said. “At brunch I had to refer to you as Ian Smith.”

“Smith?” he said with mock indignation. “Is that the best you could come up with? Why not just call me Ian Doe?”

“You were almost Ian Spoon because that’s what I happened to be holding in my hand when the question came up. The girls probably think I’ve resorted to inventing imaginary suitors to help me get past my breakup with Stuart.”

“Could an imaginary suitor do this?” Ian asked, giving Kate what she decided to dub the number six, which was deep, openmouthed kissing with tongue while cradling her face after he’d pulled her onto his lap.

“Good God, your eyes are crossed,” Ian said when it was over.

She held her finger to his lips. “Shhhh… no one likes a braggart.”

He smiled and bit it gently. Kate liked being held on Ian’s lap, so she stayed where she was. Ian, no slouch in the proximity-awareness department, leaned in again. This time he brushed aside the tendrils of hair that had escaped her French twist and gave her a series of soft kisses that started below her ear and continued down her neck. Kate leaned her head back against the couch to give him better access, which he took full advantage of by turning the kissing into the most erotic nibbling. If she wasn’t careful, Ian might try to kiss her right into bed, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. Reluctantly, she climbed off his lap.

“Where are you going?”

“No one likes a braggart, but no one likes a tease either.”

Ian grudgingly announced that he needed to go. “I would rather stay and kiss you some more and then take you to dinner, but I really must get back to my project.”

“That’s okay. I’m still stuffed full of strawberries.” She walked him to the door.

“Are you free Friday night? Around six thirty? I’d like for us to go on our third date. And you know what that means.”

“I do happen to be available, and I’m well aware of what sometimes happens on the third date. But for your information, we’re not quite there yet.”

“We’re not?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because I feel like we could be.”

Kate pretended to think about it. “Positive.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be happy as long as I can still kiss you. I’m really very patient, Katie.” He kissed her again—deep, lingering—as if to show her just how much he enjoyed it.

Before he turned to go he said, “So are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Past your breakup with Stuart?”

Kate knew she was more than likely just something for Ian to play with. A girl to rile up, an interesting diversion at best. By his own admission, he didn’t stick around in any city for very long. But she was glad he’d asked, because it was the first indication he’d given her that he possessed any vulnerability at all. Very few men wanted to get involved with a woman only to watch her return to her old boyfriend because she still harbored feelings for him.

“Yes, Ian Smith. I can assure you that I am.”





CHAPTER EIGHT

Someone was banging on the door. Kate buried her head under the pile of blankets on the couch and prayed they’d go away. She’d started feeling sick after she got home from the food pantry on Thursday and had spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the couch coughing. Things had taken a decidedly worse turn overnight, and she’d been awake—and miserable—since around three that morning. In an attempt to ease the tightness in her lungs, she’d taken a long, steamy shower at four, but it hadn’t helped much.

The knocking became banging. Slowly she made her way toward the door, zigzagging dizzily across the room. “What?” she croaked.

“It’s Ian. Open up.”

She managed to get the door open but felt light-headed and reached for the doorjamb to steady herself. She missed it completely and pitched forward into the hallway. Ian caught her with a soft oomph, swung her up in his arms, and kicked the door shut with his foot. She laid her cheek against his chest.

“You’re sizzling, sweetness. I can feel the heat through my shirt. When’s the last time you took something for that fever?” He laid her down gently on the couch.

“What time is it?”

“A little after nine.”

“Five maybe? I’ve been counting the minutes until I could take more Motrin. I think I can have another dose now.”