She sends me a glare and walks into the living room with two bowls loaded with steaming cobbler.
“I’ll never forget Kenneth’s note.” She hands one of the bowls to me and sits down at the other end of the couch. “Canon says to tell you we’reright here.”
“That was the last time you yelled at me, though.”
“Ya think?” She scoops up some of the dessert, chasing the ice cream around the bowl with her spoon. “I hope this is half as good as my mama’s.”
The first bite nearly crosses my eyes. “This is delicious. If your mama’s is any better, I might marry her.”
“She might have you.”
I’ve heard about her sister and mother, but nothing about her father. “So is your dad still around?”
“No.” Her smile withers and she lowers her eyes to the bowl in her hands. “He died. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
She lifts and drops one shoulder, her eyes sober when they meet mine. “It actually made us closer—me, Mama and Terry. That’s why it hurt so much when Terry . . . when she did what she did.”
She stands abruptly, her bowl still mostly full, and cuts down the emotion growing in her eyes. “Guess I didn’t want dessert as much as I thought I did. I’m done.”
“Hey.” I take her wrist gently and pull her to stand between my knees, looking up, searching her face for lingering hurt. “You okay?”
She nods, glancing down her arm to where I clasp her wrist loosely. By the time she looks back, the hurt, the sadness is gone. They’ve left behind a smoldering ember, an answer to the burning question ablaze in me. I should get out of here now. I’ve managed to keep the promise to myself. I’m ahead in this game and should cut my losses.
But do I?
Am I that smart?
Am I that strong?
Hell, no.
When she leans closer, aligning our faces, I don’t pull back or push her away. Our noses touch and panting breaths wrestle between our lips. We’re inches from the inevitable, and she’s the only one who could stop us now. Desire clouds the clear brown, long-lashed eyes that bore into mine.
“I want to kiss you,” she whispers over my lips. “Is that okay?”
I swallow deeply, wrestling with my own longings. If I say no, she’ll step away. She’ll go into the kitchen. I’ll leave and return to my empty house. To my empty bed. To a life that, aside from the stories I tell, the movies I make, is pretty empty, too.
“It’s not the best idea,” I say, my voice low, raspy, nearly unrecognizable.
She carefully climbs onto the couch, over my knees. The short skirt rides up as she spreads her thighs to bracket mine.
“What would be a good idea?” she asks, so close now her lips skim the words over my mouth.
I take a deep breath that brushes my chest against the generous curves of her breasts, the contact robbing my brain of thoughts for a second. “I’m your boss, Neevah.”
“What does that have to do with it?” She pulls back, concern knitting her thick, sleek brows. “You think I’ll say you made me do it? I would never do that, Canon. If you think this is some kind of trap . . .”
She starts sliding off, but I can’t let her do that. I don’t want her to do that. Every inch separating us is excruciating. I hold her in place and draw her close again, my hands palming the tight, slim line of her back, rolling from her shoulder blades past the delicate cage of her ribs to the dramatic indent from waist to hip.
“I’ve dreamt of you touching me,” she says, her breath scented with apples and spice and want. “Don’t stop.”
“Neevah—”
“Don’t. Stop.” She sets the bowls on the couch to our left and right, freeing her hands to reach back up and caress my nape, run her fingers over the coarse waves of hair I’ve let grow while we’ve been shooting. “I want to touch you, too.”
She scrapes the neat crescents of her nails over my ears. I shudder, and she pauses smiling, repeating the simple caress. Her fingers wander to my jaw, scraping through the bristly beginnings of my beard.