“Nice to have an appetite.” She swallowed a few guzzles of water from the bottle he’d refilled for her. “It must kick in late afternoon.”
The bing of her email inbox sounded again. That had to be the sixth or seventh time since they’d sat down to eat. She rose to check it and he rose with her, curling a hand around her slender wrist.
“It’s after five, Pen. Time to clock off.”
“Just let me check.” She tilted her head, sending her blond hair sliding over breasts that were pushed against the low V-cut of her silky shirt.
Keeping her wrist captive, he lowered his lips to hers.
“No,” he whispered, lifting his head to find her wearing a disdainful frown. “Gather your things and I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh, all right.” She shut down her desktop computer and slid her laptop into a bag along with a few other files and her planner. “If you could send my things back to my place, I’d appreciate it. There are a few outfits I’d like to have on hand for this week.”
“Home is my place, Penelope.” He lifted the sack and her water bottle, holding the door open for her.
“No. I’m going to my house.”
“Guess again. Let’s go.”
“Zach!” She straightened her back and squared her jaw, ready for a fight. He slid a lingering gaze down her body—over the fitted jacket and pants to the shoes he should have thrown out rather than hid in his closet.
He took a step closer to her and she adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “You’re wearing the shoes I told you not to.” His voice dipped to communicate his displeasure.
“It’s a free country.” She arched one fair eyebrow.
“You’re coming to my house,” he reiterated. He couldn’t risk her slipping in the shoes or forgetting to eat or no one being there if she felt sick in the morning. He wanted her safe. He wanted her with him. “No more discussion.”
“You can’t keep me prisoner, you know.” She propped a fist on one hip.
Stubborn thing...
Zach dropped the bag and scooped Pen against him, his arm locked at her lower back. He kissed her, his tongue plunging past her lips, pleased when her free hand went from pushing him away to fisting in his shirt and tugging him forward. A thrill pulsed through him when her lips went pliant and her tongue began sparring with his.
When she finally surfaced, he kissed her lips softly once, twice more, and made sure she was steady on her spindly shoes before letting her go.
He then bent and lifted the bag and smirked down at her. Her hair was rumpled, her jacket askance and her lips pink and swollen from his five o’clock shadow.
His. Through and through.
“Your place.” She said it with an eye roll, and offered a droll, “But only because there’s no one at my house who kisses me like that,” over her shoulder while they walked to the elevator.
Yeah, he thought she’d see things his way.
* * *
“Engaged?” Penelope’s mother squawked into the phone.
Penelope’d had a feeling the news would be a surprise. Her mother knew Pen had all but sworn off men since one ran her out of Chicago.
Paula Brand had always been a busy woman. When Penelope was growing up, one indelible fact stood out about her mother: she worked.
Part of Pen’s work ethic had come directly from her mother. Yes, her father worked on their co-owned real estate business, but it was Paula whom Penelope had always wanted to grow up and be like.
“I’m getting you the news a little late,” Pen said. “There was a bit of a kerfuffle here in Dallas about my being engaged to the mayor’s brother.” Not that the news would have traveled to Chicago.
“Well, what’s he like? Other than being the mayor’s brother,” her mother said, rustling papers. Paula was most likely sitting at the kitchen table of her latest project. Pen could imagine a paper-strewn surface surrounded by refinished cabinet drawers leaning against every wall, stacks of to-be-installed tile dotting worn linoleum. Paula was usually busy with one house project or the next, but she always made time for her only daughter.
“Well, I actually met him in Chicago in passing a few years back.” Hopefully this would foster the notion that she hadn’t rushed into anything. “He relocated to Dallas, and when I did, too, I ran into him at...a concert.” Concert seemed better than a club. No way was Pen sharing what transpired that evening. Namely: the conception of their son or daughter.