Page 6 of Hot Under the Collar

He grinned. When they reached his building, he didn’t want the walk to end. He didn’t want the night to end. He didn’t want this version of himself, who only existed for these ten stolen minutes with her, to end. He liked the Lynne she’d grown into—teasing, lighthearted, clinging to something that belonged to him. He wondered if she liked this version of him, too.

“You know it’s been eleven years, right?”

She paused. “Since your dad?”

He nodded, throat tightening. “And Mike leaving and all the fallout after those two things.”

She looked at him in this careful, surprised way. Like she was afraid of breaking him. “I’m sorry, Leo,” she said. She released one of her hands from his helmet so she could trace down his arm and lace her fingers with his.

He remembered her doing this exact same thing at his father’s funeral. Not letting go until the graveside service ended, while his mom was beside herself with grief. Lynne was like an anchor in a storm back then. But tonight her touch felt different. Not just because she was freezing but also because there was nothing compelling her this time. She didn’t have to walk him home, didn’t have to hold his helmet, didn’t have to touch him like it might be an invitation to something more.

He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Tell me something you remember about my dad,” he asked. His chest tightened at the words.

“Hmm. There’s a lot,” she confessed. She thought for a moment as his thumb stroked back and forth along her knuckles. “He used to whistle. All the time. Same four notes, over and over.” She laughed. “I can’t be sure, but I think it was ‘Take It Easy.’”

“The Eagles?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, that checks out, too. That band was such a big part of our lives growing up, they might as well have been the third March son—maybe even Dad’s favorite.”

Now they were both laughing. And still holding hands. And close enough he could feel the fog her breath made. He lifted her hand to his face and held it against his scruff as his eyes closed, then gently kissed her palm. He felt her breath catch, so he pressed her hand to his chest, between the folds of his unzipped turnout coat, where she could warm it.

“You’re not really drunk, are you?” Lynne asked.

“No,” he admitted. Was that irritation or hope he caught in her voice?

“Well, I’m going to need you to prove it.”

“Prove it?”

She just licked her lips and lifted her eyebrows at him, hand still pressed against his chest.

Leo thought for a moment of how he might. “Here, give me that.” He plucked the helmet from her other hand and set it beside the door. Then he dug in his pocket for the jar of maraschino cherries Dale had gifted him. He pulled one out, ate the cherry, and spent the next couple moments tying the stem into a perfect knot with his teeth and tongue. When he finished, he set the jar beside the helmet and proudly displayed the knotted stem for her. “See?”

“That’s just a bar trick,” Lynne said.

“Okay, but not a bar trick a drunk guy could do. If I was drunk, we’d still be standing here for the next ten minutes, with me trying to knot that damn thing in my mouth.”

She sighed. “I suppose so.”

He tossed aside the knot and closed the space between them. Her blue eyes lifted to meet his. “And you know what else that trick means?” he asked. She shook her head. “That I’m really good with my tongue.”

He brushed his fingertips along the gold bands at her waist and pressed his hands into the small of her back. He dipped his face toward hers, tracing one small circle against the tip of her nose with his nose. She cracked a smile as her eyes sparkled up at him. And he realized he hadn’t misread all those glances back at the bar.

When their lips met, her mouth softened then yielded to his. Delicate and sweet and better than he could’ve imagined. He could taste her berry lip gloss, smell her skin, feel her melt into his arms. But as the kiss deepened, doubt got the better of him, his brain convinced he’d actually passed out in the alley and was dreaming this moment instead of living it. He let her mouth fall from his.

“There was no tongue in that kiss,” Lynne huffed, her eyes full of want. “You can’t make a claim like that and not follow through, Leo.”

Her bluntness made him smirk. Good. Lynne wanted and demanded it of him. She really wasn’t like women his age.

He touched one of those fallen curls, so much softer than he’d expected, and cupped his hand against her jaw. And this time, when he bent his head toward hers, she met him halfway. Their lips parted, tongues gliding and dancing against each other until it warmed their bodies, until their hands got involved in their messy, heady choreography. They fought against his stiff turnout gear and her soft curves. He didn’t want to come up for air. He just wanted to drown in this moment.

He spun her around and gently pinned her hips against the brick wall with his, traced his lips down her neck to her collarbone and sucked there as she let out a moan. He knew his body was betraying him, the proof of what he wanted to do to her pressed hard between them. But the turnout gear was too bulky for her to tell.

She put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back. The faintest flush bloomed along her cheekbones.

“What am I doing?” she whispered, not to him but to herself. “I need to get back to the bar.” But she said it as if she was trying to convince herself. “Goodnight, Leo.”