Her Secret Life

“Something like that,” he said. And with a hint of a grin, he stood. “Now, I’m going to bed. I assume the room you’ve given me has a lock on the door?” He was teasing her.

And she loved him for it.

“Yes, but I have a key,” she told him, standing, too.

And then, because she was Kacey, she moved closer. And then even closer. Until her body was right in front of his. Her hips touched his. Her chest pressed against his. Arms at her side, she reached up on tiptoe and placed her mouth against his, as well.

Just one kiss.

He’d asked for time.

They probably both needed it.

But she needed the touch of his lips right now.

* * *

MIKE DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. Not only because he was in a strange bed—that smelled of lavender—and could hear street sounds from down below, but because he could not stop thinking about sex with Kacey. The idea raged through his body and seemed to be possessing his mind. He’d redirect his thoughts and before he knew it they’d be right back in the same place.

The entire situation had been made nearly impossible by that kiss. A light touch of her lips to his. Closed mouth. Hardly intimate.

For a woman who kissed on-screen as part of her job, he imagined it had been a pretty plebian experience for Kacey.

He was a man who only kissed when he was in a relationship. Or pursuing one. His family weren’t kissers. No good-night kisses growing up. No kisses on the cheek for hello and goodbye.

She was in the kitchen the next morning when he showed himself, fully showered, shaved and dressed. He’d stayed in his room until it was almost time to leave.

“I made coffee,” Kacey said.

“You don’t drink coffee.”

“I had tea.”

She’d made the coffee for him. Already had it in a thermos on the counter.

“Listen, Michael, if I screwed you up last night...screwed us up, I...”

Her eyes were clouded again. Like they’d been since that night on the beach. He couldn’t send her back there. Not if he could help it.

“You didn’t mess me up,” he told her and found an easy grin. “I need to process...”

In tight jeans and a cute off-white blouse that came in tight at the waist and then stopped short with frilly lace just below her waistband, she was every man’s fantasy. At least in his book.

“I do know that about you,” she said, assessing him. “You are a processer. And I push right on ahead—”

“Which we know and love about you,” he inserted.

“So, we’re okay?”

“Yes.”

“And last night...you said you needed to think...”

She was asking him if he would think about having sex with her. He could read the desire, the doubt in her eyes.

“We can talk more when you’re in town this weekend.”

He’d almost said “home,” but if he was going to proceed with any kind of relationship with her—and he knew that he was—then he had to keep his boundaries clear in his mind.