Jill Shalvis - Kiss Me, I'm Irish

All the while, Deuce studied her long, capable fingers as she examined a refurbished oven and imagined them on him. He listened to her soft laugh and fantasized about hearing it as he slowly undressed her. And, of course, he took any excuse to brush her silky skin or touch her slender shoulder.

He hadn’t been kidding when he told her he wasn’t done kissing her. He wasn’t.

While she’d gotten Buddy to knock off two percentage points of interest on a short-term loan and throw in an $800 fryer—surprising him completely with her willingness to add more unhealthy food to her café menu—Deuce had started planning where and how and when he’d get back to kissing her.

The minute they said goodbye to Buddy, he launched his plan into action.

“I’m starved,” he told her as they climbed back into the 450 SL.

“Anything but pizza,” she agreed, buckling her seatbelt. “There are tons of places between here and home.”

“I know exactly where we’re going.” But he had no intention of telling her. “It’ll be a little while before we eat, but I promise, it’s worth the wait.”

She gave him a curious look, but didn’t argue. She slid the paperwork from their meeting into the side pocket of her door, then dropped her head back and closed her eyes, letting the sun light her face. As he turned to back out of the parking spot, his gaze lingered on her face, her long throat, her sweet lips.

He wanted to kiss her right then. Why wait? Because, as any good pitcher knew, timing was the key to success.

They listened to jazz and barely spoke as he drove toward Rockingham. When they finally stopped at a deli in West Dennis, she looked surprised.

“Barnstable Bagel?” She half laughed. “You in the mood for a Reuben?”

“Great deli sandwiches here, if I recall correctly.” If he told her he was going for atmosphere instead of cuisine, she’d fight him. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, she took the bag of food and drinks that he handed her and tucked it into the space behind their seats. “We’re eating in the car?”

“I believe it’s called a picnic.”

She lowered her sunglasses enough to look hard at him. “A picnic?”

“Chill out, Ken-doll. You’ll like it.” He hoped.

When he pulled up to the dunes at West Rock Beach, he practically felt her whole body tense. He shut off the engine and turned for the bag in the back. “I’ve always liked this beach.”

She backed away to avoid contact. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“No,” he said slowly, pulling up the deli bag. “This is my idea of a picnic.”

“This is… We don’t have a blanket,” she said quickly.

“We can sit on the benches.”

Barely disguising a long, slow sigh, she climbed out of the car and they walked toward a low rise of the dunes, then stopped to take in the panorama of the Atlantic Ocean. A cool, salty breeze lifted his hair and filled his nostrils.

“Why are you doing this, Deuce?” she asked quietly.

“This has always been my favorite beach.”

Without responding, she reached down and slid out of her loafers, then bounded toward the weather-worn bench that faced the ocean. He followed her, lumps of sand sliding into his own shoes.

“And because I want to make up for not calling you,” he said as he sat next to her.

“By coming here?” She crossed her arms and faced the water. “I told you, I’ve forgotten about it and I think you should, too.”

“Turkey or roast beef?” He held out the two wrapped sandwiches and she took the one marked with the T.

“I’ll take this one.”

“You’re lying, Kendra.”

She looked up at him. “I like turkey.”

“You haven’t completely forgotten.”

Wordlessly, she unwrapped the sandwich and made a little tray on her lap with the white deli paper. As he did the same, she nibbled at the crust of the whole grain bread, gazing at the blue-black waters of the Atlantic.

“Okay,” she finally said, setting her sandwich in her lap, “I haven’t forgotten. But I forgive. I mean, I forgive you for never calling. I don’t see any reason to hold a grudge. Can we move on now?”

“But you remember everything else?”

She nodded, but didn’t look at him.

“So do I,” he admitted. Every kiss, every touch, even that long, shuddering sigh as he entered her.

He thought he saw her close her eyes behind her sunglasses, but then they ate in silence, only the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the occasional squawk of a gull breaking the mood. Two young mothers with three kids between them wandered by looking for shells, and a retired couple walked hand-in-hand by the water’s edge. He stole a sideways glance to see which vignette held her attention.

Her focus was on the children. Funny, he’d thought she’d like the old people who still held hands. He regarded her as she took a bite of a potato chip, watching the children with rapt attention.

“You want kids, Kendra?”

Her jaw stopped moving and her whole being froze. Slowly, she wiped the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin and swallowed. “What brought that question on?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re about thirty, right?”

“As of last November.”

“Well, don’t most women your age want kids? Tick-tock and all that?”

She didn’t answer, but that little vein jumped in her neck. She took a drink of water and he watched her throat rise and fall.

“I’m so involved with the café, I don’t really think about it,” she finally said.

He opened another water bottle for himself. “I want kids,” he announced, surprising himself with the sudden candor. By the look on her face, he’d surprised her, too. “I do,” he continued. “Nine boys so I could have my own little team.”

She leaned back and let out that pretty laugh that sounded like music. “I pity the poor woman who has to give you nine children.”

“Adoption.” He could have sworn she sucked in a tiny breath at the word. “Seriously. Adopt a couple of sets of twins and bam, you got an infield.”

“You’re nuts.” She folded up the white paper carefully, her fingers quivering a little.

“Are you cold?” he asked, reaching over to touch her hands. “We can go back to the car.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

God, he loved holding her hand, touching her skin. He squeezed her fingers.

“Listen to me,” he said softly. “It wasn’t as if that night didn’t leave an impression,” he said slowly. “Because it did.”

She whipped her hand out from his grip. “What part of I don’t want to talk about it anymore don’t you understand, Deuce?”

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

She blew out a disgusted breath. “Maybe because it embarrasses me.”

“Why are you embarrassed? It was…” Incredible. Amazing. Mind-boggling. He got hard just thinking about it. “Great.”

“I doubt you remember the details.”

Oh but he did. “You’re wrong.”

She folded the deli paper into a tiny square and held a pickle to him. “Want this?”

“Don’t change the subject again.”

“I’m not changing the subject. I’m offering you a pickle.”

“I’m offering you an apology.”

“You did that already. Apology accepted. But you’re going to owe me another one if you don’t drop the subject.”

He took the pickle and her deli wrap, stuffed them into the bag, and carried it all to a trash can about twenty feet away. She stayed on the bench, sipping her water.

When he returned, he held out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

She just looked up at him, a half smile tipping her lips, deepening her dimples. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for a walk on the beach?”