Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“I was delivering Christmas trees.” I laughed quietly, holding her gaze. “But you’re welcome. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
She smiled, and her face lit up like she was a whole Christmas light display. It warmed my grinchy little heart for a hot flash of a second, and I beat away the rush of temptation to act on my attraction to her.
She’d been drinking.
That alone was reason enough not to act on it.
Yes, she’d eaten.
Yes, she had full control of herself.
But she’d been drinking.
I couldn’t say one hundred percent if totally sober Sylvie would consent to me kissing her, so I wasn’t going to do it.
Because by God, if I ever kissed this woman, she was going to be completely on board with it. She was going to consent to it, she was going to want it, and she was going to fucking like it.
“I am feeling better,” Sylvie said with a smile as soft as her voice. “I really needed to let it out, and I guess I also really needed to eat, so thank you for buying me dinner. And not letting me fall on my arse in the road. The last thing I need is a sprained ankle.”
“It was my pleasure.”
She leant forwards right as I turned my head to look over her shoulder, and her lips brushed against mine.
We both stilled, and every thought I’d had a mere thirty seconds ago rushed out of my mind at the sweet feeling of her mouth pressing against my own.
I barely had time to register the fact that my head turn had ruined her attempt at kissing me on the cheek before she gasped and leant back, still gripping onto the car door.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed, her eyes widening. “That didn’t happen. Pretend that didn’t happen.”
“It happened,” I replied, holding her gaze. “You know it happened.”
“That didn’t happen,” she repeated, her voice low. “Oh, my fucking God. Never bring that up.”
“I’m bringing it up.”
“No, you aren’t.” She slapped her hands against the car door and took a step backwards. “That was a mistake, and we are never talking about it again!”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’re the one who went in for it, Sylvie. Sure, you meant my cheek, but even that’s out of character. We are definitely talking about this.”
“No, we are not!” She stopped, raised her hand, then shook her fist. Presumably for lack of a better thing to do. “Oh, piss off, Thomas!”
I couldn’t help it.
I laughed, dropping my head back on the headrest. That only pissed her off more, and she stomped to the front door, slipping no less than three times, and I watched as it took her four attempts to get her key in the door.
Granted, it was because she kept shooting me dark looks and missed the lock three times because she wasn’t paying attention rather than the fact she’d had a couple of drinks, but that just added to my amusement of the whole situation.
She slammed the door behind her, and I shook my head, but I was happy she was safely inside—without slipping on her arse.
I dropped my forehead to the steering wheel and banged my head against it a few times. With any luck, it’d knock the ideas of kissing the woman right out of my head and send them into orbit where they belonged.
Because… fuck.
Sylvie Harding was tying me up in bloody knots, and I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do about it.
Staying away from her wasn’t an option.
Not now I knew what it was like to kiss her. It didn’t matter that it was accidental or fleeting, that it was a giant fucking mistake she’d literally ran away from.
She’d kissed me.
I knew what it was like to have her lips touch mine. I knew how soft they were, how it felt for that short time, and that meant I couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to kiss her properly.
I wanted to kiss her until her breath hitched.
Until her cheeks flushed.
Until her knees gave out.
Fuck.
***
“Did you have dinner with Sylvie last night?” Mum asked, strolling through the kitchen with her nose stuck in the local newspaper. “Was it a date?”
“Yes, I did, and no, it wasn’t,” I replied. “Watch the stool.”
She stopped and closed the paper, then looked at her feet. “Oh, thank you, darling. I didn’t see that there.”
“Yes, having a paper held against your face does somewhat impede visibility.”
“Don’t be smart with me.” She folded the paper up, leant over the island, and tapped it on my head. “I was reading the football scores, that’s all.”
I wasn’t going to ask. The last time the woman read a football score, I was eighteen and playing my last game for the local development team before I left for university.