Page 24 of Fate, Interrupted

The knock comes at eight forty-seven.

Two knocks, evenly spaced. I set down the book in my hands and cross to the door.

I stare at him through the glass, not moving. He’s in a dark jacket, no tie. An end-of-day look that shouldn’t look as good as it does on him. But shit. He looks like a cross between a young Andy Garcia and a younger Al Pacino. Only bigger.

Relief hits first. Attraction follows close behind, which is irritating because I would prefer to be annoyed with him for at least thirty seconds.

I open the door, not fully, because I’m not completely confident he’s here for any other reason than to make sure his guys showed up. He glances past me into the shop, taking in the fan turning over the counter. His eyes come back to me.

“Your guys already left,” I say.

He’s still not telling me why. I let him keep that part for now.

“I know.” He meets my eyes. “I got held up at the warehouse.”

He’s not going to say what it actually was. He knows I know that. We’re both going to let it sit there.

He doesn’t move. He could say goodnight and leave. He doesn’t. “The fan works,” I say, opening the door wider and stepping back to let him in.

When he’s in, I lock the door behind him, force of habit. He walks around the counter, looking up, inspecting the fan blades, listening for the wrong sounds. I want to roll my eyes. We both know the fan doesn’t need a quality assurance check, and he’s buying time to keep from talking.

Finally he says, “You stayed late.”

“I live close,” I say. “It wasn’t a hardship.”

“Even so, I’m sure it’s good to get home and relax.”

I ignore his pointed digging. No doubt he wants me to admit I was hoping he’d show up. Nope. Not happening.

I sigh. It’s late, and I’m tired. I throw him a bone anyway.

“I’m glad you came. Even late. I was about to turn the lights off and head out.”

The corners of his mouth lift. He knows I’m lying and lets me get away with it.

We stand in the middle of the shop, the new fan running overhead, approximately one foot of distance between us. The electricians are gone. The door is locked. Neither of us says goodnight.

He closes the distance first.

Not fast. With intention, which is different, and somehow worse for my composure. His hand comes up to the side of my face, steady and warm—he runs hotter than me, hotter than any human, and I lean into it without thinking, my whole body tilting toward the heat of him before my brain has a vote in the matter. His mouth finds mine, and the shop drops away.

It’s not careful. Not after the first few seconds. His hand slides from my jaw into my hair and the kiss deepens. A low sound catches in his throat, and I feel it against my mouth. I place my hands flat against the front of his jacket, not to slow him down, but because I want him closer.

His hands find my waist, then my back, pulling me flush against him with a patience that feels deliberately held, like he’s giving me less than what he actually wants to give. I feel exactly how affected he is, the hard line of him against my hip, and desire that has been quiet for a very long time wakes up all at once and wants more of this, wants all of it, and the surprise of that awareness is real.

I haven’t wanted anything like this in longer than I want to admit. Certainly not the last perfectly nice, entirely forgettable man I spent six tepid months dating because Penny kept asking when I was going to put myself out there. Silas is nothing like him.

I stop thinking about the excuse he didn’t quite make.

My hands slide up his chest. His mouth moves over mine again, and one of his hands spreads across my lower back. For a few seconds, I am perfectly willing to find out how much further he’ll go.

I could take him home. I want to.

I stop thinking entirely. My hands are still pressed hard against him, his are still at my back, both of us breathing harder than we were a minute ago.

And then I pull back.

He stops immediately. His hands stay where they are, but he doesn’t pull me closer.