She cocked her head. “Is it hard now? You make it seem like it’s so easy for you to take off.”
Shit. He waved the bottle. “No, no. It’s all good. I meant financially.”
She was nodding, but in a careful way that said she didn’t quite know whether to believe him. Thankfully, she didn’t press the subject. “Do you feel bad for leaving? I mean, I can totally understand you going when the clients have dried up, but this place needs businesses.”
“Do I feel bad? Yep. Every day.” He also felt pretty crappy about the idea of staying, but he didn’t say that.
“Isn’t it weird, though? Living in this house that so clearly isn’t yours? Being here when she isn’t?”
Leith scratched at his face. His five-o’clock shadow usually came in around three, and it was past ten. “At this point, it’s hard to say what’s weird or what isn’t. I’m living in limbo. There’s weird on all sides.”
He was trying to make a joke, but realized, as soon as he said it, that he was a big fucking liar. He knew exactly what was weird, and that was having Jen Haverhurst standing within arm’s reach in the old-lady kitchen that wasn’t his.
The bottle at his lips, he regarded her as coolly as possible. “Sure you don’t want that beer?”
“I’m sure.” But her voice didn’t sound so steady.
Time to change the subject. “How’d the meeting with Sue go?”
With a hiss through her teeth, she grimaced. “Dunno. I asked her a bunch of things, tried to be cagey about possible changes, since you said she’d put up defenses if I asked too much right away, but I think she saw right through me.”
“Probably, knowing Mayor Sue.”
“She wants the same-old, same-old, but I can make the games better. I know I can. Think she’ll sway the council against me, shoot me down before I get my points across?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fuck.”
Though she wasn’t talking about the physical act, the idea of doing that, with her, zoomed in with blood-pounding strength and threatened to replace all sane thought. He drank.
There were things he could do to try to ease her mind, to make her job easier. To help her.
“Want to have breakfast with me tomorrow?” he asked.
Because he was a guy, his mind scrolled through all the events that might come before a man asked a woman to breakfast. But also, because he was a gentleman raised by a fine Scottish man who’d taught him to respect women, he tried to push them aside.
“Yeah, I can do that,” she said.
“Great. The Kafe at eight?”
She nodded and then started toward the door. Then she stopped and looked at him strangely, as though she’d seen something on his face, when he was usually so careful about not betraying his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Kissing you.”
The truth just fell out, like one of his two-hundred-seventy-pound throwing buddies had come over and whacked him on the back, expelling the words from his mouth. He wouldn’t back down, though. He’d own that statement like he owned four unwanted houses in Gleann.
She drew the tiniest of breaths, holding perfectly still. “Like . . . now?”
Well, yes, but she looked so scared he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Another casual gulp of beer. “Actually, I was thinking about our first.”
Her thick, dark eyelashes fluttered as she dipped her chin, and he considered that maybe she’d been thinking about that night, too. Or maybe one of the sixty other nights that summer they’d grabbed each other whenever time and circumstance allowed.
She surprised the hell out of him by saying, “It’s hard to walk past the Stone and not think about it.”
No shit. He’d had to see that thatched-roof reminder every day for the past ten years. The place where he’d first tasted Jen’s mouth, that kiss in all its messy, frantic, hormonal glory, could do him a giant favor by leaving him alone for a day or two.
So she’d talk about their beginning but not remotely acknowledge their end?
He considered taking this further by finally breaking and being the one to bring it up, then realized it would be like slamming a bulldozer through the wall. Their interaction tonight had been so easy, so warm. So like two adults who still—maybe, hopefully—felt some sort of attraction or affection toward one another.
He put down the beer and grabbed the back of a chair with both hands, leaning into it. It let out a giant groan under his weight. He should be thankful for their distance, because the way she breathed now, with deep movements of her chest, her head tilted back slightly on her neck, brought to mind images of surrender.
She ran a hand up and down one bare arm, and even though it was warm in the small summer kitchen, her skin pebbled.
“I have to go. My food’s probably ice-cold and I have work to do before bed.” She mimed typing.
He let her turn and descend the step into the foyer, his body aching to follow. She picked up her purse and peeked at him over her shoulder, her shiny dark hair hiding a green eye. Those things were powerful, brilliant enough to stun with just one.
There. A flash of remembrance. A second of desire. She hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t pushed it away.
His own brand of desire came back from the past, shooting straight through the years, intensifying as it spun and grew. It slammed into him. Any other woman he’d dated over the past decade didn’t even register. He and Jen though, they had an anchor that was pretty impossible to dig out of the sand.
He couldn’t help himself. “I lied, Jen. I was thinking about kissing you right now. Still am.”
He watched the shiver pass through her, could see it even across the room. Good.
And then he was across the room, his legs eating up the kitchen floor in three strides. Hands on her hips, the feel of that dress in his palms, he lightly pressed her against the back door. She didn’t protest, didn’t stiffen, and if that wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what was. Her body was warm and giving along his.
His head lowered, her mouth three inches away. Then two. Then . . .
It was short and gentle, the brush of his lips against hers. But the promise, the heat . . .
He pulled back with a restraint he’d never known himself capable of. Straightening, he looked down at her dazed face.
“What do you want, Leith?” she whispered.
He knew her question was bigger than this moment, that she was referring to the fact that her presence here—and his, too—was temporary, at best.
“Right now”—he gave her waist a squeeze—“I’m pretty sure I want you. Beyond that, I don’t know.” Then he pushed back fully, putting charged air between them. “Still want to have breakfast with me?”
Only he wasn’t talking about just eating. He meant everything that came before.
“Yes,” she breathed. A heated mingling of stares, and then she opened the door and was gone.
Chapter
7
Jen hauled open the glass door to Kathleen’s Kafe the next morning at precisely 7:59. It was one of the only buildings in town that had been renovated and updated, and that had been sometime in the seventies. Though hideous, the faux-wood veneer booths and tables, and the brown vinyl cushion covers felt like a warm blanket around her shoulders. The walls were covered with sagging shelves packed with tchotchkes: T-shirts and mugs from valley-area high school events, stuffed animals coated in a layer of dust, photos of people long dead but still smiling. She wondered if the hash browns were still as crispy as she remembered.