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“It started out imperfect,” he adds, maybe a little embarrassed as he scratches his jaw. “It was a surprise. The pregnancy. But a good surprise, of course.”
“Of course,” I second.
“And so I married her. In city hall, not the Conservatory of Flowers or Shakespeare Garden, or what have you,” he says, almost apologetic.
“Oh.” I pause. “Was that hard for you, when I was rattling off all those places?”
“No,” he says, at first, then stops himself, reconsiders. “Not hard. Just a reminder, that’s all. But I have no regrets. Not a single one.”
I can tell he doesn’t want me to compliment him for being an upstanding guy and marrying the woman he knocked up so I just give him a warm smile and nod, so he knows I’m listening.
“Anyway, she died unexpectedly. I lost the career of my dreams and the mother of my child at the same time.”
“That’s so hard, Gage,” I say, reaching out to run a hand down his strong arm, my loaned vintage ring gliding over his permanent art.
“It was. But hey, now I’m tattooed. This right here?” he says, pointing to a bird on his flesh. “It’s for new dreams.”
I run my finger along the finely drawn wings. The bird’s not macho like an eagle. It’s not feminine like a dove. It’s simple and a statement—a future, a dream, a new horizon. A slight tremble seems to move through him as I trace it. I should stop. But I don’t. I travel along the bird up to the crook of his elbow, then down as it flies into the moon and the stars, the lotus, and the sky. The guideposts on his body. “They’re beautiful,” I say.
His eyes hold mine, and then he lifts a hand, reaching for my face before he drops his palm with regret in his green eyes. For touching me? Or not touching me? I don’t know.
Gage clears his throat. Checks his watch. “We should get the girls soon. We probably need to leave in ten minutes.”
I try to ignore the disappointment inside me as I hunt around for the broom I was using. He finds the rags and the spray cleaner for the counters. Then we make our way to the little supply closet down a nook at the back of the store.
I open it and set the broom down. He wedges past me and puts down his items. Then I reach for my purse on a shelf, since I left it here earlier, but Gage steps in, moving faster and snagging it for me.
As he hands it over, the bag buzzes. He cocks his head. “Is your purse purring?”
I should be embarrassed. But instead, I roll my eyes—at me. “That’s just my Plus One.”
He jerks his head. His tone is pure intrigue as he asks, “Plus One?”
“It’s the name for this tiny little pocket friend,” I say, dipping my hand into my bag to find the tiny rose-gold vibe and silence it.
But his hand covers mine. In a heartbeat, he’s setting the purse back down then cupping my cheek, holding my face and studying me, like he’s weighing choices and consequences. Risks and rewards. The great and terrible appeal of a romance that we won’t let be.
We’re pretending to be in love while fighting to stay apart.
Yes, it’s hard.
But this? Tilting my chin. Parting my lips. Saying yes with my eyes. This is easy. Welcoming his kiss.
He takes my invite and raises it, crushing my lips to his. We kiss more, hungry and urgent. A kiss that’s a countdown. A kiss that knows it’s running on borrowed time. He bites my lower lip, tugs on it, groaning as he seals his mouth to mine.
He kisses me like a man in charge. Like he has zero regrets. Because this is what’s been keeping him up at night—the need to touch me again.
Same here. I feel it too. And I feel swept away by the insistence of his lips on mine as he grips my shoulders, holds me like he won’t let go, marks my mouth.
With a carnal groan, he breaks the kiss, his eyes glinting with desire. “This is a bad idea.” But his tone says it’s the only idea.
“It is.”
“We said we’d be hands off.”
I glance at his strong hands, gripping me tightly. “That’s true.”
He hauls in a breath. Blows it out. Stares at me, then says, “But what if I’m not really touching you?”
