Sheri WhiteFeather - The Morning-After Proposal

He chuckled. “Like the husband in Bewitched? Are you trying to make a married man out of me?”

Heaven’s no, she thought. He would make a lousy husband. He wouldn’t even be able to get his wife’s name right. “Okay. Fine. I’ll call you Bob instead.”

“I get it. Bob Dylan.” This time he didn’t chuckle. His voice was strong, silky, richly masculine. “I like his music. His lyrics.” He paused, released an audible breath. “I’ve always been fascinated by the lady who is supposed to lay across his big brass bed.”

Her pulse panicked, quickened, jumped to her throat. That song never failed to give her chills. Romantic, sexy, poetic chills. “Never mind. Call me Julia. Do whatever the hell you want.” She frowned, considered hanging up on him. “You will anyway.”

“You’re right, I will.” His tone didn’t change; his voice remained strong and silky. “I have one, you know.”

Dare she ask? “Have one what?”

“A big brass bed.”

Sakes alive. JJ was in bed now, curled up in the predusk hours, wearing pink sweats and fuzzy socks. On the nightstand was a cup of herbal tea. Henry’s dog, a sweet old bloodhound, napped beside her. “I’m not going to be her.”

“Her who?” he asked, although she suspected that he knew.

“The lady in Dylan’s big brass bed.”

“Not his, no. But mine, yes. At least in my dreams. I already told you that I was into you, Julia.”

She was into him too, but she shouldn’t be. “You’ll just have to keep dreaming.”

“I’ve been doing that for eight months.” He shifted or moved or did something that rustled the phone. “I haven’t had a lover since then.”

She went silent. Completely still. She didn’t know what to say, how to feel, how to react.

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

“Yes.” She regained her senses. Or she tried to. Her head was still reeling. “I’ll bet that’s a record for you.”

He didn’t comment on his record. Instead, he pried into her sex life. “Has it been a long time for you, too? Or is there someone I should be jealous of?”

She looked at the dog, then ruffled his ears. He opened his droopy eyes and yawned at her. “Craig is in bed with me now.”

Dylan laughed. “I already met Henry’s dog. That lazy old hound doesn’t count.”

She laughed, too. Then they both fell silent.

“It’s going to happen,” he said suddenly.

Her heart nearly blasted its way out of her chest. She knew he meant the kiss. “Not if I don’t let it.”

“You will. Sooner or later you will.”

Struggling for control, she changed the subject. “So, what’s the deal with our trip? Did you book the flight?”

He didn’t respond. Instead he left her hanging, the intimacy he’d created hovering in the air.

She waited, her heart still pounding.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I took care of it. We leave tomorrow around three. I’ll pick you up around eleven-thirty. That’ll give us plenty of time to get to the airport and go through the security check and all that.”

“I’ll pay you back when I can,” she said, grateful the tension had passed.

“What for?” he asked.

“The flight.”

“I don’t mind. I’d rather pay your way.”

“I appreciate your generosity, but I don’t want to be indebted to you. Not anymore than I already am.” She could only imagine what her mother’s burial had cost. But she would find a way to reimburse him for that, too. Even if it took years.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dylan.”

“Yeah. But I’ll see you tonight, too,” he said, ending the call as roughly as it had begun.

Stonewalled, JJ hugged the phone, the empty dial tone, to her chest. He’d done it again. He’d gotten in the last word, the last romantic thought.

He would see her tonight.

In the fantasy of his mind.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.