Twenty Wishes (Blossom Street #5)(71)

He laughed again, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.

“I’m turning into a prune,” she said, “and I love every second of it and all because I’m with you.”

“You’re very beautiful,” he murmured.

“Even with wrinkled skin and mascara running down my face?”

“If you only knew…” Then, seeming to reach some kind of decision, he slowly exhaled. “Listen, Barbie, this is all very flattering, but—”

She interrupted him again, kissing him full on the mouth, using her lips and tongue to steal his very words. After coming this far, she didn’t plan to let him get cold feet and a cold heart now.

His eyes were still closed when she broke off the kiss.

“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for. You—”

“I won’t tolerate a man making decisions for me. If you think I’m going to allow you to decide what I do and don’t know, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

The edges of his mouth quivered with the effort of suppressing a smile. “So you know everything there is to know about my disability.”

“Of course I don’t.”

He ignored her response. “You read a few things on the Internet and you think you know it all.”

“Well…okay, I read a few things.”

His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

A flush rose in her cheeks. “Mainly, I was interested in how we’ll make love.”

Mark gasped—or perhaps it was a groan, she couldn’t tell which. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”

“Probably,” she admitted. “But that’s what I was most curious about.”

His face somber and apprehensive, he smoothed a wet tendril from her cheek. “I should tell you…I haven’t…since the accident.”

“Then it’s about time.” Barbie couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. Even more unbelievable was the fact that she could speak so openly and boldly about lovemaking with a man she barely knew.

Mark held her gaze a long moment. “Where do we go from here?”

“Where do you want to go?”

A smile twitched his lips. “Now, that’s a leading question if I ever heard one.”

She slapped his shoulder. “What I mean is we should probably get to know each other a little better.”

“Must we?” he asked with pretended chagrin.

“Yes!”

“We can’t go to bed first and ask questions later?”

“I’m not that kind of woman.” Although considering the way he kissed, she might think about converting.

“I was afraid of that.”

“You swim every day?”

“Every day,” he assured her. “You too, right?”

“Right.” This schedule change was going to take some adjustment. “Except Monday and Wednesday, when I’ll be in my belly dancing class. Okay, I’ll swim two or three times a week.”

“Right.”

“I could meet you afterward.” Her staff was going to be putting in a lot of extra hours. That wasn’t a problem; Barbie had been planning to give them more hours, anyway.

“You’re sure about this?” Mark didn’t seem convinced.

“I’m positive and if you ask me once more, I’ll—”

“If you want to punish me, all you have to do is press that perfect body of yours against mine.”

“That’s nice to know.” She moved closer and slid her right leg between his thighs. Her br**sts brushed his chest as she spread eager kisses along his jaw.

“I suggest you stop now,” he muttered. “There’s a seniors’ class coming in soon.”

“Can’t. I’m thanking you.”

“For what?”

“The flowers you sent.” She wouldn’t have found the courage to confront him this afternoon if he hadn’t made that move.

Mark went very still. “I didn’t send you flowers.”

“But…the card had your name on it.”

He muttered something she couldn’t completely hear; she caught the gist of it, though. Mark’s sister or perhaps his mother was responsible for that bouquet.

“So, you didn’t send the flowers,” she confirmed.

Mark wound his fingers into her hair and dragged her mouth to his. “Let’s just pretend I did.”

Barbie was more than willing to do exactly that.

Chapter 23

Lillie Higgins stared at the phone, then groaned in frustration and turned away. This should be easy. Everyone seemed to think there was nothing to it. But try as she might, Lillie couldn’t make herself call Hector.

In desperation, not knowing how else to manage this, she’d contacted the dealership instead, with a list of imaginary complaints about her car. The receptionist she spoke with made her an appointment for Thursday morning at ten. By the time she arrived at the service department, her stomach was tied up in knots a sailor couldn’t untangle.

A man she didn’t recognize came out to discuss the trouble her car had supposedly been giving her.

“Could you explain again what the problem is?” he asked, studying his clipboard.