“I have what you could call an outline. What would be a draft of an outline.”
“You’re so like Parker. Maybe that’s part of it. If Parker were a guy, or we were both gay, we’d be married. Which would mean I’d never have to date again. My annoyance thereof the key cause for the sexual moratorium. And very likely this conversation.”
“Do you want to hear the outline?”
“Yes, but I’m passing on the quiz that follows.”
“We give it a month.”
“Give what a month?”
“The adjustment. Seeing each other this way. We go out, stay in, have conversations, socialize, engage in recreational activities. We date, like people do when they’re easing into a different dynamic. And, given the tribal connection, and given what I assume is a mutual desire to limit potential damage to our current connection—”
“Now who’s the lawyer?”
“Given that,” he went on,“though it gives me no pleasure, literally, we continue the sexual moratorium.”
“You’d also be in a sexual moratorium?”
“Fair’s fair.”
“Hmm.” She switched from beer to water. “We do all the stuff normal, consenting, unattached adults do with each other, but no sex, with each other or anyone else?”
“That’s the idea.”
“For thirty days.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Why the thirty?”
“It’s a reasonable time line for both of us to determine if we want to take it to the next step. It’s a big step, Laurel. You matter too much to me to rush it.”
“Dating’s harder than sex.”
He laughed. “Who the hell have you been dating? I’ll try to make it easy for you. How about we catch a movie after the event on Sunday? Just a movie.”
She angled her head. “Who picks the flick?”
“We’ll negotiate. No tearjerker.”
“No horror.”
“Agreed.”
“Maybe you should draw up a contract.”
He took the dig with a shrug. “If you’ve got a better idea, I’m open.
“I don’t have any idea. I never thought we’d get to a point where I would need an idea. How about we just sleep together and call it even?”
“Okay.” When her mouth dropped open, he grinned. “I not only know you, but I know a bluff when I hear one.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“No, I don’t. I think that’s part of it, and I guess we’d better take some time and find out. I’m in if you are.”
She studied the attractive and familiar face, the calm eyes, the easy posture. “We’ll probably want to murder each other half the time.”
“That won’t be anything new In or out, Laurel?”
“In.” She offered a hand to close the deal.
“I think this calls for more than a handshake.” But he took her hand, used it to draw her to her feet along with him. “Plus we should see what it’s like when neither of us is irritated.”
A little frisson, as much anticipation as nerves, jittered up her spine. “Maybe I am.”
“No. No little crease here.” He skimmed a fingertip between her eyebrows. “Dead giveaway.”
“Wait,” she said when he ran his hands down her arms. “Now I’m self-conscious. It’s no good if I’m thinking too much and—”
He shut her up, drawing her in and up to brush his lips over hers in slow, soft sweeps.
“Or,” she murmured, and let her hands glide up from his shoulders until her arms could link around his neck.
More surprises, he thought, when there was warmth and exploration instead of just heat and impulse. Sweet and easy wrapped in layers of the familiar and the new. He knew her scent, her shape, but the taste of her, ripe and seductive, merged what was into what might be.
He took his time, drawing it out, drawing her in, to savor the new mix of sensations.
She poured herself into it, taking every ounce of the moment she’d imagined dozens of times. A dying day, soft lights, the quiet sigh of a summer breeze. Foolish fancies of a young girl’s crush, longings transformed over time into a woman’s need.
Now the fancies were real, the longings met. And in the kiss she felt his need rise with hers. Whatever happened, this moment, this dying day, would always be hers.
When their lips parted, he stayed close. “How long do you think that’s been in there?” he wondered.
“Hard to say.” Impossible to tell him.
“Yeah.”
He touched his lips to hers again, testing, stirring, then deepening until they were both breathless.
“I’d better go get your shoes.”
“Okay.” But she pulled him back, racheting up the heat, groaning with it when his hands stroked down her sides to grip her hips.
He teetered on the edge, but made himself pull back. “Shoes,” he managed. “Free the hostages.You really need to go. Home.”
Stirred and shaken, she leaned back against the deck rail. “I told you dating’s harder than sex.”
“We don’t shirk from challenges.You’ve got some lips. I’ve always liked the look of them. I like them even better now.”
They curved. “Come over here and say that.”
“Better not. I’ll be back in a minute with the shoes.”
She watched him go and thought it was going to be a really long month.
SNEAKING BACK INTO THE HOUSE SHOULD BE, BY ALL THE ODDS, simpler than sneaking out. Carter and Mac would be tucked into their place, Emma and Jack in theirs. Mrs. G would either be watching TV in her cozy apartment with her feet up and a pot of her evening tea, or out with some cronies. Parker? Probably still working, but in her own suite and in comfortable clothes.
Laurel parked, reassured by the lights in the studio and guest-house. She just wanted to get into her own space, alone, and think about everything that happened, everything that had changed or started to change tonight.
Her lips still tingled from his; her skin still hummed. She could all but dance to the tune. If she’d kept a diary, she’d cover today’s page with little hearts and flowers.
Then rip it out and tear it up because that was embarrassing. But still, she’d do it.
Smiling at the idea, she let herself into the house, carefully and quietly locked up behind her. She didn’t exactly tiptoe up the stairs, but it was close.
“Are you just getting in?”
She didn’t scream, but that was close, too. Whirling, Laurel gaped at Parker, then sat down hard on the steps before she tumbled.
“Jesus Christ! Jesus! You’re scarier than a Rottweiler. What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Parker waved the carton in her hand. “I went down for a yogurt and I’m going up to my room. What are you doing sneaking up the steps?”
“I wasn’t sneaking. I was walking. Quietly. You have yogurt in the little fridge upstairs.”
“I’m out of blueberry. I wanted blueberry. Do you mind?”
“No, no. God.” Laurel took a ragged breath, patted her heart. “You just scared the crap out of me.”
This time Parker pointed with her spoon. “You have guilty face.”
“I do not.”
“I’m looking at it. I know guilty face when I’m looking at it.”
“I’m not guilty. Why should I be guilty? I don’t have a curfew, do I, Mom?”
“See, guilty.”
“Okay, okay, put away the rubber hose.” Laurel threw up her arms in surrender. “I just went to Del’s to get my shoes.”
“Laurel, I can see that.You’re holding them in your hand.”
“Right. Right. Well, they’re great shoes and I wanted them back.” She stroked one affectionately. “He’d ordered Chinese.There were pot stickers.”
“Ah.” Nodding, Parker walked up to sit beside Laurel.
“I wasn’t going to stay, but I did, so we sat out on the deck and talked about me kissing him, then him kissing me. Which I didn’t actually mention to you. It feels weirder talking to you about it than it does talking to him.”