He swallows hard, his eyes locked on me. “That’s my favorite part,” he says softly, though it sounds less like a confession about literature and more like a revelation about us.
My throat is dry, my voice a mere breath. “Mine too.”
The book lies forgotten between us, my hand still warm in his. Marcel studies me, thumb brushing over my knuckles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
And then, slowly, he closes the space between us.
His hand leaves mine to graze my jaw, rough palm shockingly gentle as it cradles me. I can’t look away. His eyes search mine like he’s asking without words, and my heart answers before my voice ever could.
The kiss is soft at first, careful. But the moment our lips meet, something in me cracks wide open. I lean in, greedy for more, and he answers with a tenderness edged in hunger.
His mouth moves over mine slowly, controlling the pace. My mind races with the taste of him, the way his arms wrap around him, the way my breath stumbles against him. My hand finds his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart beneath.
“Clara, you make a man weak.”
I pull back, looking in his eyes. “I won’t even apologize, Cowboy. You make me feel things I never have before. Tell me you feel it, too.”
His eyes move around my face, his hand sweeping against my cheek. “You’re so beautiful, Clara. So full of light, I can’t help but be enamored by you.”
He leans in again, his words repeated by his lips on mine.
The air still hums with the kiss when the faint sound of the front door opening reaches us. Footsteps echo in the foyer.
We spring apart like children caught misbehaving, breathless and guilty, hands fumbling to straighten clothing that hardly needs straightening. My heart thunders, not from shame exactly, but from the knowledge of how close we came to being seen.
Irene’s silhouette appears in the doorway, her smile already in place, eyes sparkling as if she knows far more than she should. “Well,” she says lightly, glancing between us, “this looks cozy.”
Marcel clears his throat, rising to his feet with a respectful nod. “Thank you for inviting me, ma’am. It was kind of you.”
“Of course, dear.” She waves her hand like it’s nothing, though her grin doesn’t fade. “Clara deserves pleasant company, and I can see you’re exactly that.”
I stand too quickly, clutching my hands, forcing composure I don’t feel. Marcel walks to the door, picking up his hat from the table, and adjusts it in his hands, turning just slightly toward me. His eyes find mine, and for a moment, the whole world falls away. There’s no kiss, no words, just the silent exchange that sayswe both felt it, we both want more.
He tips his head, almost a bow. “Miss Clara.” His voice is soft, warm, full of meaning that only I can hear.
“Mr. Clarke,” I reply, equally hushed, though my pulse pounds so hard I can barely breathe the syllables.
Then Irene steps further in, breaking the spell. “Before you run off, Mr. Clarke, I wonder if I might trouble you with a little favor?”
He straightens, attentive. “Yes, ma’am?”
“The greenhouse out back,” she says, her tone breezy. “Something’s been giving the staff trouble with two of the glass panes. I’d be grateful if you’d come by Sunday afternoon, after church, and see if you can’t lend a hand to fix them.”
My brows twitch upward, but I don’t dare speak. Nothing is wrong with the greenhouse. I know it. Irene knows it. And yet she says it so smoothly, so convincingly, even I half believe it.
Marcel nods without hesitation. “I’d be glad to.”
“Wonderful,” Irene says, clapping her hands softly. “We’ll expect you then.”
He tips his hat, offers a final glance in my direction that leaves me warm, then strides toward the door. The house seems quieter the moment it closes behind him, like he’s taken something vital with him.
I press my hand to my lips, still tingling, my heart still racing. Irene turns to me, smile wide and knowing.
“Sunday,” she says simply, and sweeps from the room.
Good Morning
Marcel 1986
