A Winter's Tale (The Shakespeare Sisters 2)

‘Are you there?’

Shit, she’d forgotten to press the button. ‘Yeah, I’m still here.’

‘I thought you’d run out on me again.’ The warmth in his voice made her heart pound.

‘No, I’m still here,’ she repeated. She sounded about as exciting as Dory right then.

‘Can you buzz me in? I just wanted to talk to you about something.’

Alarmed, Kitty looked down at her pyjamas. Not the fluffy sheep ones she’d worn in West Virginia, but equally stupid. There were a joke gift from Cesca – red and white love-heart shorts, with a top that said ‘Gangsta Napper’. Not exactly the cool, sophisticated look she would have liked.

‘I’m in my pyjamas,’ she told him.

‘At nine o’clock?’

She could just imagine the perplexed expression on his face. ‘That’s how I roll.’

‘Well it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.’ Was he smiling? She hoped he was. ‘But I promise not to drag you out on a Skidoo this time.’

Was it wrong to feel disappointed at that? ‘OK, come on up. We’re the last door on the third floor.’ She pressed the button to release the front door. Then as she turned from the intercom, a sense of horror washed over her as she saw what a mess the apartment was. Clothes everywhere, a pile of underwear on the kitchen counter – clean she hoped – and dishes stacked in the sink that had been ignored for days. And the bathroom was even worse, it looked as though a bomb had hit it. The only room in the whole apartment that wasn’t in a state of complete disarray was her bedroom.

No, that wasn’t happening. Definitely not.

How long did it take to walk up the three flights of stairs to their level? Not enough time, with Adam’s sure, long strides. Damn him and his muscles. There was no possible way of tidying all this away before —

There was a knock. Strong, sure. Just like him. She could feel her heart start to pound again, like it was banging on her ribcage to be let out. Swallowing down her nerves, she walked in her bare feet over to the door and slowly opened it.

There he was, in full-size glory. The man she’d been obsessing about ever since she’d arrived back in LA. He was more casual than he had been earlier – wearing jeans and a black cotton Henley that emphasised the planes of his chest. As she dragged her eyes up to look at his face – damn that gorgeous face – she could see he was checking out her clothes, too.

‘Gangster Napper?’ he questioned, raising one eyebrow. ‘It suits you.’ Then his eyes slid down to her shorts and her long, thankfully waxed, legs, and she wondered what emotion she could see flashing behind his eyes.

‘Come in,’ she said, stepping aside to let him past. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess. My room-mates don’t understand the concept of tidy as you go.’

Every time he stood in front of her, she found herself surprised by his height, by his strength, by the way he commanded a room. He was looking around, no doubt taking in the cramped living room, the threadbare sofas, the clothes that seemed to be everywhere. His lip quirked up when he saw the pile of underwear by the kitchen.

‘They’re not mine,’ she told him hastily. ‘None of this is my mess.’

His smile got wider.

Hastily she changed the subject. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘I’m good.’ He was still smiling. He looked so different without a beard covering his face.

‘I’m still getting used to you being clean-shaven,’ she told him, as much to fill the silence as anything.

‘Don’t you like it?’ He rubbed his thumb along his jaw.

‘It’s not that I don’t like it,’ she told him, watching as his thumb slid smoothly along his skin. ‘It’s more that you look so different than the Adam I got to know.’ She licked her lips, still staring at his face. ‘Can I touch it?’

Was it possible to feel any more embarrassed? Why the hell did she ask that?

‘Sure, go ahead.’

She took a deep breath, the air rushing into her dry mouth as she lifted her shaking hand until her fingers were almost touching his jaw. Adam closed his eyes, his lips pursing together as she brushed the pads of her fingers on his soft, smooth skin, blowing out a mouthful of air as she stroked him, her fingers moving further up, past his lips, his cheek, his eyes. Then her hand was in his hair, feeling the cropped strands tickle her palm. His eyelids flew open and he was staring at her, his gaze hot and intense.

‘Please don’t play with me,’ he said, his voice rough.

‘I’m not playing,’ she whispered.