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“I’m sure you’ll find a good reason to slap me in due time, but that time hasn’t arrived just yet. You were saying?” I smile cordially when we are both standing in front of one another.
She shakes out of my touch, jerking her hand back.
“You’re a bastard!” she spits out in my face. “Tell me what you were thinking. Have you had these thoughts long? No one just gets up on a banister like that. In the dark too! When I saw you through the window, I thought . . .”
She fires venom and wrath at me with her words, her voice drifting into one ear, exiting the other. I’m not suicidal. Tanked up? Sure, but nowhere near the realms of self-harm. Nonetheless, Winnifred succeeded in saving me, whereas I failed in saving Grace. Twice.
My eyes are still focused on her lips. Pink, narrow, and luscious. She is impossibly sweet. That combination between virtue and rage is downright sinful. They don’t make ’em like this anymore. Especially in Manhattan. My mind may be slow, but my senses are sharp, and I know an opportunity when I see one.
My lips crash against hers clumsily. I cup the back of her head and draw her to myself. Arya’s warning is a distant memory. So is Calypso Hall, and the fact that we are both in love with other people, and that those people are dead. Reality ceases to exist, and the only thing I’m focused on is the person in front of me.
She is soft and sugary and different. So different I cannot close my eyes and imagine she is Grace, like I want to. There’s not a hint of alcohol on her breath. No bitter bite of an overpowering perfume. She is all toffee apples and lazy Tennessee summer nights. She is church bells and sweet tea and Moon Pies.
The very thing I frown upon.
Our tongues dance together. She fists the lapels of my tuxedo like I might run away. I’m not going anywhere. I want to pick her up and take her to my apartment and fuck her senseless. I want that girl who ate a peach like she was a forbidden Lolita under the Italian Riviera’s sun, oozing reckless sexuality.
Reckless sexuality. Jesus. Who am I? I need to screw this woman out of my system, ASAP.
My thumbs are on her cheeks, under her lashes, as I deepen the kiss, crowd her until her back is flat against the wall . . .
Winnifred rips her mouth from mine the minute her exposed back touches the concrete. Breathless, she raises her hand and slaps me. This time, my right cheek flies sideways. It stings like a motherfucker. I rub my palm along my cheek, smiling.
“You darn well earned this one,” she hisses.
I bow my head. “When you’re right, you’re right, Bumpkin. Back to your words from a few minutes ago—I’m not suicidal. I am, however, shitfaced, which could explain why I overstepped the line.”
“Overstepped?” she chokes out in anger. “You pissed all over the thing!”
I laugh but take a step back regardless. Sexual predator is not a look I’d like to try. “You kissed me back.”
“I did no such thing!” She blushes guiltily. Oops. This is the second time I drag Winnifred out of her perfect Stepford Wife comfort zone.
“What annoyed you about my existence this time?” I inquire pleasantly. “And please spare me any claims you didn’t enjoy it. Your toes curled in your sandals, and I felt the goose bumps all over your skin.”
Her eyes narrow as she tries to figure out where and how to aim her next verbal blow. We’re playing a game here. But unlike my games with Grace, this one is competitive without being hostile. We both want to win, but no part of me is worried she is capable of poisoning or killing me in the process. Most important of all, we share the same endgame—we both want to know more about the lovers who left us behind.
“You know.” She smiles sweetly, reaching to dust off my blazer. “I forgot to mention at the New Amsterdam that I have a room full of Paul’s belongings that I haven’t opened yet. He asked me to never set foot in it, before he passed away. Wonder how many Grace-related things we could find there?” She looks up at me with her bluebonnet eyes. “The options are limitless.”
My grip on her waist tightens. I don’t stop to think why the fuck I’m holding this annoying woman in the first place. “And you’re just telling me this now?”
“My bad, was I supposed to be on your timeline, Mr. Big Brain?” She catches my hands, rips them from her waist, turns around, and walks away midconversation. I follow her. She opens the door to stroll back into the buzzing room. I’m on her heel, transfixed. She slides gracefully between dancers. I shove and elbow my way to keep up with her. We’re a hungry cat and a very smart mouse.
