“Sex with you is worth a lot of lies.” At her censuring look, he nodded. “Yeah. They were.”
She sighed. “I’ll get over wanting to slug you eventually. So no hard feelings.”
“Thank you. Now say you’re not going to go.”
Closing her eyes, she kissed him again. Softer now. Apology and acceptance both. She wasn’t going to lie to him and she wasn’t going to stay. Better just to kiss him, chalk it up to an experience she wasn’t likely to soon forget and move on.
The phone rang and he slid away to answer it, his hand fumbling for hers. She let him link their fingers and listened while he talked to someone, possibly one of his sisters. He asked her questions about an upcoming graduation party—who graduated in November?—and chided her about remembering to send him the bill for something.
Her gaze wandered around the opulent room, landing on the ornate four-poster bed frame before darting to the plush carpeting and antique armoire and bed set. Tangled around them were what had to be eight-hundred-thread-count sheets. She didn’t fit in his world just like he didn’t fit in hers.
When he released her to reach for the pad of paper on the nightstand, she climbed off the bed and went downstairs to get dressed.
She didn’t want to walk out and leave him that way, but staying any longer would send the wrong message. They weren’t dating. They weren’t exactly friends either.
It would be better all the way around if she just let herself out.
She found her panties behind a sofa cushion and pulled them on before unearthing her jeans. Dammit, her hands were shaking. She had to get out of there before she weakened and went back upstairs to, God help her, talk. She’d actually wanted to do that a little while ago. As if discussing this craziness could help them—help her—get a handle on what was happening. The only way to handle it was to walk away. Otherwise one or both of them would end up even more disappointed.
A virgin. God. She’d never get over that one.
She dream walked through the rest of the day. A dream like the one she’d had that morning, more traumatic than a simple reverie. Everywhere she looked she saw his face. Frank Sinatra was playing in the coffee shop. Even in the freaking sanctuary. She ran into the bathroom, leaving the register unmanned—a huge no-no—to avoid hearing Ol’ Blue Eyes croon about witchcraft. She felt too acquainted with spells herself at the moment.
Maybe that was the explanation. She’d been spelled. Transfixed somehow. There was no way a kid virgin who worked for her younger brother could’ve embedded himself inside her so fast. It didn’t work that way. Not for her. Not anymore.
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She was no longer the girl who fell without a safety net. She didn’t need one. Her safety net was that she didn’t fall at all.
And then her car threatened not to start after lunch. She slammed a hand on the wheel and blew out a breath. Freaking fantastic. This sucker was getting traded in by the end of the year.
After doing some quick math in her head, she swiftly moved on from that idea. Okay, maybe not.
She actually debated calling another shop then decided she wasn’t that much of a coward. Yet. Surely she could avoid him.
At least in reality if not in her own head.
Michael went to work because he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t sit at home thinking about what had happened and besides, he had a job to do. It was snowing again, which meant a long morning of fender benders and minor vehicle issues. Him and Bob and a couple of the other guys were so busy that half the day had passed before he had another chance to think of Kim.
And then he had no choice, when she showed up in front of him.
She didn’t see him right away because she was chatting with the other guys, offering them soup in a thermos and wrapped sandwiches. Michael continued filling out the inventory report he’d stopped and started ten times already, not joining in on the laughter and joking around as he normally would have. He caught Bob shooting him a few strange looks, probably wondering why he’d turned uncharacteristically silent, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Kim had dealt with him enough for one day. He wouldn’t make it uncomfortable for her to visit her brother’s shop.
He didn’t join the conversation until he caught snippets about “still has a sluggish start” and “maybe time to trade the old junker in”. His gaze zeroed in on her where she stood in one of the bays next to a vintage Mustang, her hip pressed against the driver’s door while she talked to Brad. Her brother had half his upper body under the hood of the ’Stang and he seemed to laugh every other minute. Come to think of it, he’d been laughing a lot for the last few days. He was pretty much the only one who was, since everyone else kept bitching about the snow and the cold and how many days until spring.
Michael set down his pen, waiting for an opening into her conversation. He tried to be patient but the next time she said “running rough” he gave up on subtlety.
“What’s wrong with the car?” he asked, wiping his hands on the rag at his hip more for something to do than out of genuine need. She set all of his nerves on edge, especially when she raised those butter caramel eyes and pinned him in her stare. “I overheard something about it starting sluggish?”
“It’s running okay, I guess, it’s just not as smooth as it was back—”
“Back when you bought it?” Brad teased, grabbing a wrench and slipping back under the hood.
“Wise ass. No, even last month.”
“You think I didn’t fix it right?” Michael hated the accusation in his tone. “I’m happy to give it another look.”
“Maybe you missed something.” She lifted a shoulder. “It happens.”