The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(27)

“That’s so poetic. You should work for Hallmark,” I said, blowing my nose. Still, his words made my heart feel a little bit better.

“It’s true. You’re beautiful.” He smiled and reached out to touch my cheek.

“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, blinking in alcoholic gratitude. “You’re the best.”

“I thought you hated me,” he said, one eyebrow raising in that elvish way, a grin curling the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t. I was lying,” I answered.

“Just checking,” he said.

And then, quite out of the blue, he kissed me.

Ethan had kissed me before, of course. He’d been my friend since college, had been my brother-in-law, my protector and comforter, and he was Italian, and Italians kiss their relatives. So yes, Ethan had kissed me many times, on the cheek, as in Okay, gotta run, see you next weekend. But not like this.

This was just a gentle, warm press of lips. A sweet, almost innocent kiss after a long, long time of nothingness, and it was such a generous thing, that kiss, such an act of kindness, that my heart stopped in near-wonder. Then it was over, and Ethan pulled back an inch or two and looked at me. There were shards of gold in his brown eyes, and somehow I’d never noticed that. We stared at each other for a few heartbeats, barely breathing.

Without quite realizing it, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us. Ethan’s lips were so soft and full and warm, achingly wonderful. There was the soft, bristly scrape of his three-days beard against my face, the cool silkiness of his hair under my fingers.

The kiss deepened, a little less soft, a little more…meaningful. Ethan shifted, cupped my head in his hands. His tongue brushed mine, and that was it. I lurched against him, gripped a fistful of his shirt in one hand, his skin hot through the fabric. A little sound came from the back of my throat, and the way he tasted and felt made me feel dizzy, because it was so, so good to be touched, and held, and kissed again. God, I missed kissing.

And much to my surprise, I found that I liked kissing Ethan. Very much. It could be said, in fact, that (A) I was starving and (B) he was a buffet, because I’d (C) crawled on top of him, had his head clamped between my hands and was kissing the stuffing out him.

Of course, I’d imagined kissing someone since Jimmy died. Someone who was Not-Jimmy…imagined how I’d feel and how difficult and sad it would be. How I’d compare the two men, Jimmy and Not-Jimmy, and I’d find Jimmy so superior and then wallow in self-pity for my poor widowed self.

Somehow, I wasn’t thinking those things now. Later, it would occur to me that I hadn’t thought about Jimmy at all, not in the way I’d imagined I would. I hadn’t forgotten about him, of course…he was part of me, and so thoughts like, Jimmy’s robe is slipping flashed here and there. But they were interspersed with other thoughts…Oh, God, that feels good, don’t stop…for example. As for a sense of Jimmy’s ghost standing there, watching me in disapproval, no. Maybe it was the White Russians, maybe not, but all I could think of was how good it felt, how grateful I was to be wanted again. To have a man’s hands on my skin, to feel the solid muscles of male shoulders, to inhale the dark, spicy scent of a man, to be kissed with that blend of soft and hard, tenderness and hunger.

Ethan was the one who pulled back, eyes dark and smoky, and took my hands in his, held them against his chest. I was straddling his lap, and my robe—Jimmy’s robe—was half off, and while Ethan hadn’t seen my boobs yet, it was pretty much a technicality. I could feel his heart thudding against me, and both of us were breathing hard. I may have been shaking. “Lucy,” he said, and his voice contained a soft warning.

“Don’t say anything,” I whispered, then I kissed him again, loving the fullness of his lips, the taste of his mouth. And when he didn’t respond immediately, I took his hand and put it over my breast, holding it there as I kissed him.

“You sure about this?” he murmured against my mouth.

“Don’t talk,” I repeated, and to make sure he wouldn’t, I grabbed his shirt, it was one of my favorites, a black button-down, and I just ripped that thing open and oh, Ethan was pretty gorgeous, and he was so warm and solid and real. He was here, too, and alive. Couldn’t overlook the little things.

“Take me to bed,” I commanded. And Ethan stood up, lifting me with him, my legs wrapped around his waist, and obeyed.

IT WASN’T UNTIL ROUGHLY FIFTY-THREE minutes later that common sense came roaring back with a brisk slap in the face.

I was lying under Ethan, still panting, my legs as weak as overcooked linguine, my skin damp with sweat. His face was against my neck, one arm around me, his hand in my newly shorn hair. I could feel his heart rate calming and suddenly, a cold river of dread flooded my heart. A horrible phrase sneaked into my mind. A phrase that implies one person is doing another person a favor by sleeping with her. That one person feels deep, deep sympathy, even pity, for the other, and it is only pity that motivates him to…Oh, God. Oh, no. Ethan had just given me a mercy f—

Oh, and one more thing. It was Ethan! I’d just had sex with Ethan! Horror clamped down on me like a thirty-foot python, and my eyes flooded with tears. I’d just done the wild thing with Ethan Mirabelli. My dead husband’s brother. I’d cheated on Jimmy (his death being a minor detail at this moment).

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as the tears spilled over. “Um, Ethan, I need to…I should…” I wriggled out of bed, dragging a sheet over me, and on streaky, weak orange legs, I staggered into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Pulling on my own bathrobe (as Jimmy’s lay somewhere between the couch and the bed), I slid to the floor, a thousand recriminations bouncing around in my skull, grabbed a towel and buried my face in it to muffle the sound of my sobs. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about (sob) pregnancy, as I’d been on the Pill for a while, due to irregular periods, something I’d managed to tell Ethan when he asked just how far we should go. And I knew that Ethan would never…but just the idea that I’d done it with Ethan Mirabelli…Oh, God.