Agnes looked away, but not before I saw something flicker across her face.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice small.
“I know.” I pulled at the tape on the box. “You’realwaysfine. That’s the problem.”
“How is being fine a problem?”
“Because you’re never just fine, Agnes. You’re either actually fine, in which case you say you’re grand. Or you’re falling apart and trying to hide it, in which case you say fine in that way women do when they absolutely mean the opposite.” I started lifting books out of the box, checking the titles against the packing slip.
She was quiet for a long moment. I focused on the books, giving her space, though every nerve in my body was tuned to her like a radio searching for a signal.
“These go in the Scottish history section?” I pointed at a stack of hardcovers.
“What? Oh. Aye. Second shelf from the top, after the Jacobite collection.”
Before I could do anything, Agnes snagged the books and marched over to the shelf, abandoning her soup. The second-to-top shelf was just out of her comfortable reach, and she reached up on her tiptoes.
Bloody hell, but why did I find this annoying woman so impossibly enchanting?
Sighing, I stepped in behind her and reached past, one hand bracing against the shelf beside her head while the other relieved her of half the stack. The motion put me close—I can’t say I was mad about it—and once I was there, I didn’t pull back.
“Here,” I said, gently. “You’re going to drop them.”
She stilled.
She inhaled a short, sharp intake of breath. My arm was caged beside her now, my chest just behind her shoulder. Her body was warm through her jumper, and I wanted to bury my face in her hair and savor her scent.
I shelved the books easily, the height difference making it almost laughable how unnecessary her struggle had been. Agnes remained frozen in front of me, the seconds drawing out between us. When I finished, I should have stepped away.
I didn’t.
Agnes turned to look up at me, the movement bringing her closer. Her face tilted back, eyes wide and searching, her lips parted like she’d forgotten what she’d meant to say.
My concentration focused—laser sharp. I became acutely aware of just how small the space was, how my hand was still braced against the shelf, how my other hovered uselessly at my side, aching to reach for her.
My gaze dropped to her mouth.
Just for a second. Bloody hell, but this was torture. Why was I doing this to myself?
I needed a taste.
Her breath hitched, soft and uneven, and the sound nearly undid me.
I leaned in without quite meaning to. Just a smidge. But I could feel the heat of her breath against my lips. Her eyes dilated and God help me, but she licked her lips.
Fire ignited inside me. I needed this woman the way a drowning man needed a life preserver.
And the only one who could save me was her.
“Agnes,” I said, her name a rasp. A plea, even.
She didn’t move away.
For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to that sliver of space between us—that in-between. Thatwhat if. If I closed the distance, I knew I wouldn’t stop at a kiss. I knew exactly how it would end. Because once she let me in, I wasn’t letting her out of my hands. For at least a good twelve to fifteen hours. Give or take.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth again, betraying her.
Then the bell over the door chimed, and we sprang apart like teenagers caught by a parent.
