Chapter 18
Kiss her.
There was only one thing that stopped Dylan from doing so then, and during all the previous opportunities that had slipped away, stolen by pure apprehension.
It was the fear of rejection. Not to mention the fear he’d be diving into something too soon after having his heart broken bybimboCynthia. Then, add the inability to trust a so-called thing he used to know as, love—the idea of it now painfully tainted.
Chloe is different. He reasoned with himself every single time he backed off from acting on his desire, theboom, boomof his heart racing that much faster each time his eyes got a glimpse of her smile, or when he inhaled a whiff of that entrancing perfume, or any moment he inadvertently came in physical contact with her.
She’s just so carefree, so captivating, so—
“Kiss me.”
Dylan took a double-take at Chloe who stood facing him, hands on hips, eyes closed, lips full-on puckered.
“W-what?” A snicker busted free, not because he was laughing at her. No, his snicker was more shock-induced.
“Oh, great,” Chloe gave a scoffing eye-roll, flung her hands in the air. “I ask for a kiss, and get a laugh. Not exactly the reaction I was aiming for.” She whirled around, headed full speed for the table, then began stacking and balancing bowls, spoons, wineglasses in her arms like a skilled waitress at Wilde Pirate.
Dumbfounded, Dylan shook his head, a partial grin forming on the corners of his mouth as he walked toward her. “You want me to kiss you?”
“Nope. Not anymore. That ship has sailed so far off into the ocean.” Chloe brushed past him, set the dishes in the sink. “In fact, it’s pretty much lost at sea.”
He adored this side of her: the feisty, snarky, mouthy side he found irresistible. Refusing to blow another chance to claim her lips with his, Dylan took two steps—well, if we’re being totally accurate, he skillfully leaped—over to the kitchen sink, spun her about, his arm around her waist, drawing her closer, closer, until their lips touched.
Soft.
Sweet.
The making of a slow, sensual, make-them-both-melt-inside, flesh-tingling kind of kiss.
Okay, it could have been. If the earth-shattering clap of thunder hadn’t pulled their lips apart.
“Thunder.” Dylan’singenious, one-worded testimony was spoken through a breathless murmur.
“Right,” Chloe replied, seemingly more breathless.
Dylan didn’t move, remained there, arms still bracketing her waist, gazes locked. Being this close, made a surge of heat course through his veins, as if her lips fed him a healthy, much-needed dose of lustful energy.Finish that kiss. “Perhaps we should finish…cleaning.”Dude, what?Dylan mentally sucker-punched himself for being such an idiot.
Clean? Now? “And afterwards, sit by the fire, enjoy another glass of wine while we listen to Mother Nature wreak havoc on us.”
It was a respectable recovery. Not romance-novel-hero worthy, but, nonetheless seemed to work. At least, according to how Chloe’s face lit up, the corners of her jewel-like eyes all cute and crinkled. “Sounds like a plan.”
They tidied up, poured leftover soup in a Tupperware bowl, set it in the fridge, then drifted into the living room, wineglasses in hand, where Dylan simply flicked a switch on the wall, igniting the electric fireplace.
Now close to 9 p.m., the wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, together played an instrumental role in the production of Tropical Storm Amelia. Fierce wind, baying like a lone wolf roaming the streets, lightning with its quick and sudden strobe-like flashes, rain hitting the house like pebbles, and thunder crackling, making them both jump as they sat beside each other on the sofa.
“It’ll pass soon. This stage of the storm. Then all we’ll hear is the steady trickle of rain.” Dylan spoke low, an effort to show he was calm, fearless of Amelia.
“I-I feel safe here, with you.” Chloe took a sip of wine, leaned back into the plush couch cushion.
Hearing that brought him excitement, knowing he provided a sense of security to her. In some ways, she provided a sense of security to him, along with a desire to get to know more about what made Chloe Davenport the woman she was today. “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?”
She chuckled after swallowing a sip of wine, then placed the half-empty glass on the side table. “No, not at all. I wanted to be an investigative journalist. In fact, that was my major in college.”
Eyebrows raised as high as his curiosity, Dylan placed his almost empty glass on the table. “Seriously?”
“Yep. I looked up to, admired female investigative reporters, their drive, their commitment to a story. I thought for sure I’d end up working for a local paper, then gradually get my foot in the door, land a gig at CNN or something.”
