"Then what?"
She looked up at him—at those amber eyes that had been watching her since the moment they met, at the line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth and the way he was holding himself so carefully still—and felt something crack in her chest.
"I don't trust this," she whispered. "I don't trust myself with this. Every time I've let someone…" She shook her head. "It always ends badly. I always end up cleaning up the wreckage."
"I'm not going to hurt you, little flower."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I don't want to." He reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I can promise that the thought of hurting you makes me want to set myself on fire."
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, surprised and slightly hysterical. "That's dramatic."
"I'm a dramatic person. Haven't you noticed?"
She had. God help her, she had.
His hand was still near her face. Hovering. Waiting.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly. "Tell me you want me to back off and I will. Right now. We can finish the paperwork and never speak of this again."
She should say it. She should take the out he was offering and run, just like she'd run from the tasting room, just like she'd been running from anything that threatened her carefully constructed walls.
"And if I don't?" The words came out barely above a whisper. "If I don't tell you to stop?"
Something blazed in his eyes.
"Then I'm going to kiss you again," he said. "And this time, I'm not going to apologize for it."
The world narrowed to the space between his mouth and hers.
She had spent her whole life being careful. Being cautious. Being the responsible one who thought things through and weighed consequences and never, ever, let herself get swept up in anything she couldn't control.
For once—just this once—she wanted to stop thinking.
"Don't apologize," she said, and closed the distance herself.
When his mouth met hers it was like coming home.
It wasn't like the brief, teasing brush of their first kiss, the one that had caught her off guard and sent her running. This was deliberate. Intentional. His hands came up to frame her face, tilting her head back to deepen the angle, and she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before.
*Oh.*
*Oh, this is?—*
Her hands found his chest, pressing against solid muscle through the soft cotton of his tee. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm, faster than she expected, and the realization that he was as affected as she was broke something loose inside her.
She stopped thinking about consequences.
She stopped thinking at all.
The kiss escalated, turned hungry, turned into something that demanded more. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she went willingly. Eagerly. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, then slid upward to tangle in his still-damp hair.
He made a sound against her mouth—half groan, half growl—that she felt in her toes.
"Marigold." Her name came out ragged. "Gods, you?—"
She kissed him again before he could finish.
