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Last time, they’d enjoyed music and each other for half the night. The woman, Shawn recalled, wasn’t the least shy about her talents. The memory made him grin even as he contemplated the most polite way to turn her down.
The only thing Brenna saw—besides red—when she carted in the last tray of empties, was the way Shawn had his head tipped down and the way the blonde had her hand on him. She stalked over, slammed the tray down on the counter by the sink with enough force to make the glasses dance.
“Is there something you’re after in here?”
Eileen was quick enough to read the threat in the eyes that were burning over her face, and the meaning behind them. “Not anymore.” In a cheerful gesture, she patted Shawn’s arm. “I guess I’m heading back after all. Some other time, Shawn.”
“Ah . . . hmm.” He had a split second to make up his mind, and going with instinct, fixed a guilty, sheepish expression on his face. “Well.”
“Always a pleasure, coming to Gallagher’s,” Eileen added as she strolled to the door. She kept the snicker inside and wondered how the pint-size redhead was going to make Shawn suffer.
“Is this the last of it, then?” Shawn began scrubbing the pot again, as if he’d dedicated his life to that single purpose.
“It is. And what was that about, I’d like to know?”
“What?”
“You and the singer with the big breasts and boy’s hair?”
“Oh, Eileen.” Deliberately, he cleared his throat as he set the pot aside to deal with the glasses. “She was just saying good night.”
“Hah.” She skewered a finger into his side and made him jump. “If she’d been any closer, she’d have been inside your skin.”
“Well, now, she’s just a friendly sort.”
“Just keep this in mind, while you and I are rolling on the sheets, you keep your distance from the friendly sorts.”
Even while delight rippled through him, he straightened slowly. “Are you accusing me of something, Brenna?” It pleased him that he managed the right mix of hurt and insult. “Of making moves toward another woman while I’m with you? I didn’t realize how little you thought of me.”
“I saw what I saw.”
He studied her a moment, then began to wipe off counters with a moody and injured air. It would be interesting, he thought, to see how much she worked to bring him around.
“She had her hand on you.”
“I didn’t have mine on her, did I?”
“That’s not the—” Damn it. Brenna folded her arms, unfolded them and jammed her hands in her pockets. She’d wanted to shred the skin off the blonde’s face. Still did, she admitted, if it came to that. It wasn’t in character at all. Not that she’d back down from a fight, but she wasn’t one to start a brawl. And surely not over a man.
“You were smiling at her.”
“I’ll be sure not to smile at anyone unless you approve it first.”
“It looked overly cozy.” Her hand was still balled in her pocket. If she hadn’t felt so foolish, she might have given in to the urge to pop him with it. “I’ll apologize if I misunderstood.”
“Fine.” Leaving it at that, he walked over to push open the door and call out his good nights. When he turned back, she looked so frustrated and unhappy he nearly relented. But a man had to finish what he started. He spoke coolly, with just enough bite to let her know she had more making up to do. “Would you prefer staying over with Darcy?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t.”
“All right, then.” He crossed to the back door, opened it, waited. She got her cap and jacket from the hook by the door, then bundled them under her arm and stepped out into the chill.
They didn’t speak as they got into opposite sides of his car. She brooded out the window while he drove out of the village and up the road toward the cottage.
She told herself she’d had a perfectly normal reaction. And shifting in her seat, she told him the same. When he didn’t answer, she had to struggle not to squirm. “Can we agree this is new territory for both of us?”
Ah, he thought, just the direction he’d hoped for. He sent her one quiet look, then nodded.
“And we never, I suppose you could say, discussed the boundaries of it.”
“You wanted sex. You’re getting it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch. Perfect.
“That’s true. That’s true,” she repeated in a mutter when he pulled up to his cottage. She was starting to feel a little sick to her stomach. “But I . . . it’s only that I—” She cursed and had to scramble out of the car to keep up with him. “Damn it, you can at least hear me out.”
“I’m listening to you. Do you want tea?” he asked, viciously polite as he walked inside.
“No, I don’t want tea. And take that stick out of your arse for one bloody minute. If you don’t have the sense to see that woman wanted to jump you, you’re blind as six bats and twice as dim.”
“More to the point would be what I wanted—and intended.” He started up the steps.
“She’s beautiful.”
“So are you. What does that have to do with it?”
As her mouth was hanging open, it took a minute to get her feet moving. In all the years she’d known the man, he’d never told her she was beautiful. It threw her off her stride. She could feel her mind trip as she tried to keep it on track.
“You don’t think of me that way, and that’s all right. It’s not what I’m trying to get to, anyway.”
He’d make sure they came back to it, but for now, he emptied the contents of his pockets onto his dresser. “What are you trying to get to, Brenna?”
“I know when we started this—when I started this—I never said what I expected.” Wishing she had his clever way with words, she dragged a hand through her hair. “What I mean is, that while we’re together this way, until one of us or both of us decide this has run its course, I wouldn’t consider being with another man.”
He sat on the trunk at the foot of the bed to take off his boots. “You’re meaning that this area of our relationship should be an exclusive one? That neither of us sees anyone else? Is that the way of it?”
“Aye, that’s my feeling on it.”
They would be exclusive to each other, and it was her idea—even demand. A strong first step, he thought, to where he wanted her to lead him. He took his time, letting her believe he was considering. “That fits in with my feeling on it as well. But . . .”
“But?”
How do we know, and who decides when that changes, Brenna?”
“I don’t have an answer to that. I never expected this to be complicated. I didn’t know it was until I saw that singer hanging all over you. I didn’t like it.”
“While I’m touching you, I’m touching no one else. You’ll have to trust me.”
“I can trust you, Shawn.” Easier now, she stepped toward him. “It’s the big-breasted blondes I have trouble with.”
“Recently, my taste is running strong for well-packed redheads.”
Because she was relieved that the chill had gone out of his eyes, she laughed. “Well-packed, my ass. Have we made up, then?”
“It’s a beginning.” He patted the space beside him. “Let’s have your boots off and we’ll make up some more.”
Happy to oblige, she sat, tugged on the laces. “I hurt your feelings. I’m sorry for that.”
“I don’t mind spatting with you, Mary Brenna.” He stroked a hand over her hair. “But I don’t like you thinking that I’d think of another woman in that way when I’m with you.”
“Then I won’t think it.” After toeing off her boots, she straightened, but her eyes went wary at the way he was staring at her. “What is it?”
“I like looking at you.”
“Nothing new to see here.”
“Maybe that’s part of it.” He framed her face, then combed his fingers through her hair, drawing it back and away. “I know this face,” he said quietly, “as well as I know my own.
I can conjure it up in my mind, the way it runs from cheek to jaw.” He skimmed his lips along the sweep. “The shape and color of the eyes, and the moods of them.”
Just now, he noted, the mood was surprised, and not a little uneasy. “The mouth,” he continued, brushing it lightly, retreating just as hers softened. “The curves and dips of it. Such a lovely face. I don’t mind looking at it, even when you’re not around.”
“That’s an odd thing to . . .” She trailed off as he brought his mouth back to hers, lingered there.
“Then there’s the rest of you.” He skimmed his hands down, a light play of fingers. Then captured her hands before she could tug the sweater off. “No, let me.” He drew her to her feet, lifting the sweater, inch by inch. “It gives me pleasure to uncover you, to work my way through the layers to that amazing body of yours. It drives me mad the way you cover it up.”
She might have gaped if she hadn’t been so busy just trying to breathe. “It does?”
“I keep thinking, I know what’s under all that.” He loosened the hook of her trousers. “I’ve had that under me.” He let the trousers drop, pool at her feet. “Step out of those, darling,” he murmured, and toyed with the hem of her undershirt.
“I’m built like a twelve-year-old boy.”
“As one who’s been a twelve-year-old boy . . .” He slipped the undershirt over her head, then let his gaze run down her. “I can promise you that’s not the case. Milkmaid’s skin and strong shoulders.” He dipped his head, touching his lips to one, then the other. “And here.” Slowly, he trailed his hands from her waist to cup her breasts. Her breath caught, released, shuddered. “Soft and firm and sensitive.”
She started to drift along, to cruise on the wonderful slide of his hands. Then gasped, half in shock, half in amusement, when he lifted her, stood her on the little chest.
