Well Played (Well Met #2)(23)

Meet Benedick. He’s an excellent kisser. Or kissee, really.



I held my breath as I hit Send. Was he even anywhere near his phone? He could have been emailing me from a laptop. Maybe he wouldn’t get it till morning. But no: the message was marked “read” almost immediately, followed by those dots that indicated he was texting back.


Of course. Benedick to your Beatrice. Okay, I’ll allow it.



A slow smile spread across my face, and the warm glow intensified. He remembered my Faire name. Maybe I wasn’t just another wench in another town to him.

He sent another text: Much cuter than my date. Followed by a photo of a tall glass of beer. Something dark.

I approve of your date as well, I texted back. Though there’s plenty to be jealous of there too, you know.


Oh really? How so?



I caught my breath as I realized what I’d texted. I’d been thinking about that tall glass. His mouth on its edge, the tip of his tongue licking foam off his lips. And I’d been jealous. Of a glass of beer. Maybe this was getting a little too intimate. But what the hell.

I wish I could have kissed you at midnight. Is that a bad thing to wish? My fingers were uncertain on the keys, and it took two tries to send the text. Was that too much? It shouldn’t be; I’d slept with the man, for God’s sake. But our emails over the past few months felt more intimate than anything I’d shared in his bed. I’d been getting to know the man he was inside, not just how he liked to have sex. Through our emails, I felt like I’d met him for the first time all over again. But while we’d shared the secrets of our hearts, we hadn’t talked attraction, either from our past encounters or the new intimacy blooming between us. Kissing him now would feel like kissing him for the first time, and I ached for it.

My last text was delivered, then it was read. Then my phone was silent, and dread swirled in the pit of my stomach. I’d gone too far. I’d ruined it. But then the dots came.


No.



No? I scrunched up my face as I read those words. What the hell did that mean?

But he wasn’t done. More dots.


That’s a perfect wish. Because I wish it too. More than anything.



My breath caught. Oh thank God.

He was still typing. Times like this, especially when it’s late at night, I think about you more than I probably should. Think about how your hair would feel between my fingers. Think about how your lips would taste. Your mouth. Those are the things I think about when it’s this late at night, when my mind goes crazy with wondering and wanting.

I pressed my palms to my suddenly very warm cheeks and kicked my legs out from under the blankets, disturbing the cat. When had this room gotten so warm? But if he could confess those things, so could I. I dug my phone out from the blankets to see he hadn’t finished. Sorry. Probably shouldn’t have texted all that. Maybe had one beer too many.

I giggled as my thumbs flew over the keyboard. A couple tequilas too many over here, but that’s okay. I know what you mean. I was just thinking how new this all feels, getting to know you this way. And how much I want you to kiss me for the first time all over again.

There was a longer pause before he answered. I want that too. More than you know. Good night, Anastasia. Happy New Year.


Happy New Year, Dex.



I went to sleep with a smile on my face and a purring cat curled around my head. This new year was starting off pretty damn well.





Eight




January brought enough snow that some days I had to leave for work a good fifteen minutes earlier so I could scrape off the car and warm it up. On those days I didn’t have time for my mother to call when I was on my way out the door. Which was, of course, exactly when the landline on my wall rang. Mom’s direct line to me when she wanted to talk.

“Ugh, Mom!” I tried to let out all the frustration in that one growl under my breath before I picked up the phone so she wouldn’t hear it in my voice. She knew my schedule; this was not a good time to talk. I blew out all the negativity and picked up the receiver.

“Hey, Mom.” There. My voice was nice and light and breezy. Typical Stacey. “I’m on my way to work, can’t really talk. Can I drop by tonight?”

“Hey, Princess.” I froze at the sound of my dad’s voice. He never called; he wasn’t a phone guy. We usually communicated by him telling Mom to tell me something, and me telling her what to tell him back. So his voice on the phone was the first alarm bell in my head. The second was the hesitant, tired way he spoke. He’d said only two words, but he sounded just like he had the day he’d called me from the hospital, that first time that Mom had . . .

“Dad? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Forming words was harder than usual. My mouth didn’t seem to want to work right.

“Everything’s fine. We’re at the hospital—”

I dropped my backpack purse to the floor, and I was lucky I didn’t fumble the phone as well. “If you’re at the hospital, everything is not fine. Is it Mom?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. She wasn’t feeling right last night, so we went to the emergency room. They took her right in, and—”

“Last night?” I screeched. “And you’re just calling me now?” I started mentally flicking through the schedule at work. Was it a full day? How screwed would they be if I called in, and how much did I care? Not too much, I decided, and not at all.