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His hand snaked around her hip, cupping her ass through the jeans. She jumped against him, surprised maybe. She broke the kiss, but only so that she could attack his neck. Her lips closed over a spot just under his ear that made him curse softly into her hair. He could feel pins falling out of whatever she’d done to her hair, he suspected when they pulled apart she was going to look like she’d been caught in a wind tunnel, but he didn’t care. Kissing her like this was a revelation. He opened his mouth to say her name but someone else beat him to it.
“Ms Meyer--?”
Abi jerked, rearing up and back, knocking hard into the shopping cart.
Ilan let go of her but kept his body turned away from whoever was speaking. They knew damn well what they were interrupting, but he didn’t need everyone and their brother to know he had a massive erection. He clenched his jaw, hoping whoever-it-was would go away, but Abi was poking her head out, peering over his arm to see who it was. Judging by the way Abi reacted, he could tell he wasn’t going to like it. All the color drained from her face, and then two spots of red appeared on her cheeks. She closed her eyes and then smiled in a way that said she was going to be sick.
“Hey, Simcha, how are you?” Abi said, as though the woman hadn’t just interrupted her about to give Ilan a monster hickey.
“I’m good,” Simcha Hallerman said, and Ilan’s jaw clenched in annoyance. He’d looked at her over his shoulder when he heard the name. Simcha’s mouth was twisted in the smirk of a cat who was about to commit serious murder on some unsuspecting sparrows: “You picking up some coleslaw?”
Ilan’s entire body tensed, and the hand that was still fisted in Abi’s hair yanked involuntarily. She made a sound that was almost a yelp, and he forced himself to release her hair more smoothly, aware that meant hairpins scattered to the floor. Abi’s cheeks got redder. Simcha’s smirk got deeper.
“I don’t eat coleslaw,” Abi said, confusion written on her face.
“Nobody ever admits they do,” Simcha said, her eyes flicking to Ilan and back to Abi. “Did you get Jordanna’s email about the Haggadotfor the preschool?”
“I did,” Abi said, her mouth a tight line. Her fingers plucked at the skinny belt around her waist, but Ilan was impressed she hadn’t tried to smooth back her hair. She was embarrassed to be caught, but she wasn’t making a show of pretending it hadn’t happened.
“We think it’ll be fun to switch things up this year,” Simcha said. The tight line of Abi’s mouth pinched, but she didn’t say anything. Ilan wondered if she was trying to force a smile.
“I asked her for a link to what she wants to do,” Abi said finally. “We may be able to add some things to the existing curriculum, but I need more information.”
“Good, we want to make it fun for the kids, you know? Everybody likes something new now and then.”
“Right,” Abi said pointedly. “Well, as I said.”
“Right,” Simcha said, nodding as though an entirely different conversation was happening. It probably was, Ilan realized. Simcha took a bottle of wine off the shelf next to her, Ilan was fairly certain she didn’t even look at the label, brandished it as though it was what she’d been after all along, and she nodded her chin at him, making a show of looking him over, “Well enjoyyourcoleslaw.”
In the two seconds it took her to turn around and leave the small space, Ilan stepped back from Abi, wiping his hand over his mouth in angry disgust. Abi was muttering to herself, her attention on the floor as she picked up scattered hairpins.
“Do you need—”
“No, I’m fine,” she said, lifting a hand to hold him off. She straightened, pins fisted in one hand as she used her other to tug pieces of her hair back from her face. “Of course, it had to be Simcha Hallerman.”
“She’s a nosey little—”
“Member of the Preschool Board,” Abi said pointedly. “This is going to be all over by tomorrow. She’s probably going to invoke the phone tree.”
“Should I apologize?” he said. He would if she asked him to. He recognized this was likely the exact scenario she wanted to avoid.
“You apologize, and I’ll never speak to you again,” Abi said, twisting the final bit of her hair back and up into something that looked like it was meant to be that way.
“Okay then,” Ilan said, definitely confused now.
“Simcha Hallerman may get to make my work life miserable when she feels like it, but she doesn’t get to tell me what I do in my spare time. I’ll lick every man from here to Idaho and back if I feel like it.”
“Make sure you hydrate,” Ilan said before he could stop himself. Abi snorted. Then she looked at him, her brow furrowed.
“What was that about coleslaw?”
“Coleslaw,” Ilan said, a tension headache hitting him so hard he almost felt dizzy, “is a side dish that nobody admits they enjoy, but somehow it ends up on everyone’s plate.”
“Oh,” she was clearly putting this information in context, thinking back to the way Simcha had looked at him, the knowing tilt of her chin. “Simcha Hallerman is a massive pill.”
“No arguments from me,” Ilan said.
THREE
