She took down a tiny picture frame showing her nieces and nephews and held it over the two remotes. “You love me, Big D. I know you do. Don’t fail me now.”
She set down the frame. With a high chirp that didn’t seem like it could come out of his massive body, Dante struggled to his feet, shaking the objects off his girth. He sauntered away, his belly swinging like a cow’s udder.
Kelsey’s shoulders sank in defeat. In any other situation David would be rubbing his hands together and gloating, making a joke out of it. Except that suddenly all the fun had been sucked from the room. The pile of discarded objects scattered between them, as real and divisive as all the questions he longed to ask.
Have you ever thought of me as anything other than the class clown?
How can I prove myself to you?
Can we start over?
She blinked at him, those plump, berry lips falling open. She looked expectant. Fearful. Hopeful?
Her breathing turned shallow, but in truth, he could have been confusing that with his own. The heat rumbling through the town house vents sounded like a tornado bearing down. She was the eye of the storm—his calm, his center.
They’d kissed once before. Well, not really—just on the cheek during their matching ceremony. He remembered the silk of her skin on his, the rigid inhalation of her breath as he’d pulled away. He didn’t want tension from her. He longed for acceptance. He craved desire.
Turned out, he didn’t need wine courage after all.
Quickly, before he could doubt himself, he leaned over and kissed her. Fingertips bracing his weight on the rug, only his mouth touched her. A swift, gentle brush of lips, worthy of new beginnings. It was impulsive. Sweet. Wonderful.
She just sat there at first, but then, oh fuck, she softened with an angelic sigh. Her lips parted, letting him in. He touched his tongue to hers so slowly it felt like twelve years passed. Because they had.
Her head tilted, and if he’d thought her mouth had perfectly fit his before, this new angle redefined sin. His sigh wasn’t so angelic. He couldn’t believe she was into this. Don’t scare her. Don’t be self-indulgent, he told himself, and skimmed his fingers down her cheek.
His lungs shuddered from the strain of wanting to take more, of wanting to give her more. Yet he pulled away, because suddenly this moment had grown too large, even for him.
Her eyes opened, revealing their brilliant pools of blue. She gazed at him, his beautiful doe, one hand rising to touch her lips. “That wasn’t a question.”
His heart thudded. His throat dried up. He sat back, stunned and expressionless. “I know.”
And then he remembered why he’d come here in the first place.
CHAPTER FOUR
He’d kissed her.
Not even now, with the heat and tingle of David’s mouth lingering on her lips, and a glass of wine erasing the edges of her nerves, could she bring herself to tell him she wanted him.
He always did this to her, managed to freeze her in place. All he had to do was look at her, and her doubts and desire clashed and turned her rigid. Moronic. She could run a medical research clinic with five employees. She could treat hysterical, dying patients. She could admit when she made mistakes and had never balked at asking for help . . . and yet David Capshaw’s kiss had blanked out her speech and halted all muscle movement.
Even if she found the strength to speak now, it was already too late. She watched the conclusion cross his face. He’d tried her out and found her lacking.
He sat back—no smile, no jokes—looking terribly pale. And here she was, so full of heat and longing that she feared setting the rug on fire.
He gave a little shake of his head as if to clear it. Had she imagined the romantic way he’d kissed her? The gentle way he’d touched her face? He grazed the butterfly bandage on his temple, his arm muscles flexing under his shirt. Her body started to shake from the restraint of keeping herself in place, when all she wanted to do was crawl to him, straddle his lap, and wrap herself around him. Show him that she wasn’t frigid or boring. That she loved him.
She swallowed. “Were you going to ask to kiss me?”
A troubled cloud settled over his eyes. “No.” The hand feathering over the bandage now dropped to his stomach, as though he might be sick.
“Kelse,” he began. He’d never sounded weak or unsure in his whole life.
Great stars, what was it? “Just ask me.”
When his eyes found hers, there was far more than trouble behind them. There was mystifying pain. And regret. Over kissing her?
“I don’t know if I can ask now, after . . .” he said. “But I have to.”
“Ask me.”
She prayed the question was about her feelings or their betrothal. Something personal. Because she was so shredded she knew she would tell him anything now, and it wouldn’t hurt coming out.
“Okay.” He drew a deep, shaking breath. Briefly closed his eyes. “Will you . . . spy on Emily Pritchart?”
Though she was sitting, she felt like she’d been pushed backward off a steep cliff. “What?”
He scrubbed his face with his hands, his “Aw, fuck,” muffled behind his palms. His arms dropped and he looked her hard in the eye. “We’re running out of time. I believe Emily is the key to finding Wes, and I came here tonight to ask for your help.”
“That’s why?” She scrambled to her feet, towering over him. The ghost of their kiss cackled and turned the air between them noxious. “Who told you?” she demanded.
There were no tears, just humiliation.
He pushed to his feet, and suddenly she wanted to hate his grace. “Huh?”
“Between this morning and now, how did you find out how I feel about you? And when did you decide to use it against me?”
He just stared. “How you . . . feel about me? Oh, shit,” he whispered. He jammed fingers into his hair, the thick blond curls barely moving. “Look. Kelse. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you—”
“Damn straight you shouldn’t have.”
“I meant I . . . oh, man, I fucked this up.”
Long ago, her heart had written a script detailing how it would go down should they ever kiss. Should he ever want her. Even though it was her own stupid fault for creating one in the first place, he hadn’t just not followed it, he’d ripped it to pieces and lit the scraps on fire. All she could see in him now was a manipulator.
“You know, I always wondered if the charm was just an act, if all the flirting and witty banter was just to get you what you want. Now I know.”
He thrust out his hands, his eyebrows drawing indignantly together. “Whoa. Just hold on a sec. That’s not true.”
“It’s not?” she scoffed.
“You want to help your people, don’t you? That’s why you became a doctor, right? Because if we don’t get Wes, if we don’t bring the Ofarians back together soon, I don’t think you’ll have a clinic at all. It will be civil war, and if Wes’s side wins, you won’t be given access to anything Primary, let alone the medicine you want.”
That was nonsense. “You want to know about Emily Pritchart? Fine. Her husband was an accountant who reconciled Secondary income with Primary taxes before he died two years ago. She took back her maiden name. She has two kids in high school. She gets takeout from El Tamale Loco every week. She chain-reads biographies. Oh, and she told me just this morning that she wants Wes caught as badly as you do. There. I spied. Now get out.”
David consumed her living room. He’d invaded this space that had always been so carefully, purposely blank.