Page 21 of Something Old

A warm lightness that had nothing to do with alcohol bubbled through Madeline, and when Grant lumbered to his feet and offered her his hand, she took it and allowed him to pull her up to standing too.

“Next time though . . . ” Grant trailed off, teasing suggestion in both his voice and his warm gaze.

“Next time, what?”

“Next time we drink tequila or something, not wine.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so.”

“Why? I thought you like me when I drink wine.”

“I do.” He was so close to her that she could smell the woodsy soap he used—another thing she liked about him, she noted. His scent. “It makes you philosophical.”

“So why tequila?”

His eyes glinted, and his voice was a purr. “Because screw philosophical. I want to see you horny.”

A surprised-but-amused bark of laughter escaped before she could clamp it back.

His gaze shifted to her mouth—then lifted to meet her eyes again. Something in Madeline’s stomach leaped in a way that it hadn’t in . . . years and years. He released her hand and touched her chin, tilting it up. His lips grazed hers, so softly at first that she could almost convince herself it was just her imagination. But then his hands rested on her hips and gently tugged her closer. She stumbled over one of her discarded shoes, bumping against him in a weird, unsexy way—and that’s how she knew the moment was real. Her imagination would’ve made her alluring and sensual for her first kiss in forever, or, at least, not the most uncoordinated ninny known to mankind! Her extreme klutzy awkwardness would’ve made her laugh—except suddenly, Grant was pulling her tight against him, and she felt . . . a lot of things, but the urge to laugh wasn’t one of them. He kissed her more deeply, the pressure of his mouth asking more from her, his tongue seeking hers.

All sorts of long-sleeping things within Madeline started to awaken . . . and then a horn honked outside, and headlights flashed.

Her cab had arrived. She didn’t know if she was relieved or vexed that, for probably the first time ever in her life, her taxi was on time.

She and Grant broke apart, and as they did, he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek for a heartbeat. Instinctively, she turned into his touch, pressing her lips to his warm palm. He inhaled sharply—and simultaneously, old memories besieged her. Something cracked inside her. That was how she’d kissed Lyle—this. She shook her head and all the lovely, stupid, wine-drenched forgetfulness and camaraderie she’d been enjoying drained away in one unsteadying, nauseating rush. She inwardly cursed herself—and Grant too—for wrecking their tentative start at friendship with this . . . nonsense.

The cab honked again. “I’ve got to go. I don’t want it to leave without me.” She was already in motion, pulling on her shoes, scooping up her purse, heading toward the door—

“You could . . . stay.”

That stopped her. “No,” she said too vehemently, shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t. I can’t.”

Their eyes locked and held.

“I’m—” She swallowed hard, horrifyingly close to sobbing. “I’m sorry. I can’t do . . . any of this.”

Looking confused, which Madeline completely understood, embarrassed, which made Madeline feel terrible—Grant had nothing to be embarrassed about—and kind of shell-shocked, again something Madeline related to, too much, Grant nodded once. “No problem. I get it.” But then he spoke again, hesitantly and with a wince, as if he knew the answer already. “So, about Monday . . .?”

She nodded—then shook her head. “Yeah, it’s off. I’m so sorry. I . . . can’t.” She fled.

Chapter 13

Grant was furious with himself for wrecking everything with that stupid, impulsive kiss. He berated himself whenever he thought of Madeline—which was every few minutes, it seemed—as the rest of the week, then the weekend, then the month wore on. Each day seemed bleaker than the one before, with nothing but unending work stretching into the future. What had he been thinking? He’d met the first person he felt some semblance of connection to and curiosity about in more than a year, and what did he do? Acted like a hormone-addled teenager. Idiot! Unfortunately, his genuine regret and sincere wish that he could yank the moment back couldn’t block another truth. Whenever his brain took a break from recriminations, it liked to replay the moment with Madeline in torturous detail.

The hint of patchouli and sandalwood her skin gave off. It had driven him deliciously crazy all night while they visited—and seemed like the sexiest smell in the world to him. Holly always favored sweet, candy-like scents, which Grant had really liked and thought were his thing. He was surprised and titillated to realize he could like something else. Maybe even like it more.

The warm receptiveness of Madeline’s mouth and brazen tongue.

The sensation of her body softening and melding to his.

And worst—best?—of all: how for that brief, surging time, their desire had been mutual and all-consuming.

But he’d been so damn lonely—a fact he could only see now that he’d experienced that loneliness alleviated, however briefly, by Madeline’s company. He’d happily rewind the clock, forgo that amazing kiss, just to . . . what? To have her to talk to. To benefit from her empathetic ear and gentle teasing. To not face every day alone with no one but Grover for company. Poor dog. Grant knew how sick he was of himself. Grover, cheerful by nature, must find him really hard to bear, day in, day out.

He was also ashamed that he’d unloaded his confusion and grief about Holly, along with some of his sadness and anger over his dad’s passing, onto Madeline. She’d revealed she’d lost her husband, daughter, and sister in a car accident, which explained the well of pain he sensed in her, but no specific details. He would’ve happily tried to shoulder some of her burdens—but hadn’t wanted to press, knowing how it felt when people poked and prodded your tenderest bits like they were mere conversation fodder. Now, though, he felt he’d gained more from meeting her than she would ever get in return.