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He sat at the head of the table, and as she bent she put her hand on its surface to make as little contact with Nico as she could.
His cheek was cool when her lips brushed it. His scent she tried to obliterate by not breathing in. But because her brother leaned forward to ladle out more pasta she had to move quickly and put out a hand on Nico’s shoulder.
It was solid and warm.
One cheek to go.
Both were holding their breath.
Their desire was like the cattails and the bulrushes, waiting to be snapped open and for a million seeds to fly out and expand.
‘Be safe,’ he told her, in a voice that was somewhat gruff.
She gave the tiniest unreadable smile, and in it was a glint of danger as she straightened up.
‘I’m not your problem, Nico.’
She was, Nico knew, looking for trouble tonight.
Hell.
