Jennifer Greene - Bachelor Mom

Clearly, rum or no rum, she needed to get her act together. She shook her head with a little nervous laugh. “Good grief, it’s almost pitch-black. I didn’t realize how late it was getting. It’s way past time to head in. I owe you a big one, Spence. You came over for a little neighborly conversation, and instead I’ve been ranting on like a real fruitcake. I’m real sorry—”

“I was glad to listen. And there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“Just forget everything I said, okay? A little case of the birthday doldrums seemed to get the best of me. I didn’t really mean anything...” Something was wrong with the chaise longue. It didn’t want to let her out of it. Then she remembered she needed to put her feet on the ground before she tried to stand up.

Spence lurched to his feet with a chuckle.

“Okay, I might as well admit it. I’m probably one of the hardest core drinkers you’ve ever met,” she told him.

“I had the feeling you don’t indulge too often.”

“If you don’t promise to forget I’m making such an idiot of myself, I’m gonna die. It was just one of those power-stress days. And I was feeling crabby. And it seemed like a drink would be a good way to relax.” Once she managed to stand up, she added wryly, “My knees feet like noodles. Somehow I never expected to end up quite this relaxed.”

“I think you’re going to sleep well tonight. But before you go in...”

“Yes?” Just as she turned toward the door, she remembered the exquisite cameo gift from her sister. Carefully she scooped up the velvet box and slipped it safely in her skirt pocket.

“It is your birthday...”

She tilted her head, unsure what Spence was trying to say, unsure why he was suddenly so close. The patio cement was freezing on her bare feet, undoubtedly the reason a sudden shiver whispered up her spine. She was thinking that she needed to check on the boys, lock up, lay out clothes for tomorrow, just put this whole awful day behind her. She wasn’t thinking about kissing. In a thousand million years, she would never have guessed Spence ever planned to kiss her.

“I think it’s a rule—no birthday should pass without a birthday kiss,” he murmured.

He was teasing, she thought. Any second now she’d think of an appropriate comeback. Only in the next second, his arms had reached over. Long, strong fingers buried in her curls, holding her head tilted up to his.

His lips touched hers, softer than honey. She could smell the warmth of his skin, taste the mint iced tea on his breath. His dark eyes caught the shimmering silver of the full moon. He was just teasing, she mentally repeated to herself. He just meant a neighbor’s kiss. A gesture of affection. A kindness. If she just stood still for a second, it’d be over.

But for some strange reason, he seemed in no hurry.

Another shiver hummed up her spine, this one not caused by the icy patio cement on her bare feet. This particular shiver was as warm as a heat wave. Spence lifted his head after that first, brief taste of a kiss. His eyes were open for that moment, studying her, considering her. She saw the faintest smile on his lips, but it disappeared faster than the wink of an eye. And then he closed his eyes and came back for a real kiss.

Nothing burned like hot sugar. His mouth rubbed against hers slowly, evocatively, alluringly taking his time. She’d been married. She’d loved her husband. But no one had ever kissed her like this. All day, she’d been trying to figure out who Gwen Stanford really was. The question reared its painful head again, because God knew, she didn’t know who she was at that moment.

He hadn’t even touched her body, yet every nerve ending in her body seemed suddenly electrified. Her pulse was frantic, her nerves thrumming to intimate, wicked blues. He took her mouth like she was fiercely desired, like he couldn’t wait another instant before touching her, like there were no swing sets and sandboxes and neighbors a few yards away, like there was nothing but her in his universe.

She’d never had such a foolish response to a man in her entire life. Family tradition or no family tradition, she abruptly resolved never to make rum cake again, to pour every ounce of that demon drink straight down the drain.

Still...

She knew, really knew, that her response to him was unforgivably silly. The hormones singing in her head had a reason. Too much rum. And the allure of a man who positively knew how to kiss a woman, who’d probably known millions and millions of women. She knew. Yet yearning still swept through her like a storm, so heady and wild that her knees wanted to buckle. She felt young and reckless. She felt brand-new, on the brink of all the excitement in life, back in that time when she really believed in fairy tales and the unconquerable power of love....

Slowly Spence stepped back from her. Slowly he traced the line of her jaw with the edge of his thumb. “Happy birthday, Gwen,” he murmured.

Two

An hour later, Gwen had locked up, picked up and switched off all the lights. She dialed the telephone in her bedroom to call Vermont. Her sister should still be up, and she wanted to thank Paige for the cameo.

As the telephone rang at the other end, her gaze pounced from the lemon yellow print comforter to the wicker love seat in the corner. She’d redecorated the bedroom right after the divorce. Ron favored dark, rich expensive woods. Actually, his taste pretty predictably ran to anything that cost the moon. She’d sold the oppressive stuff, painted and redid everything in sunny yellows and white wicker. It was her private haven now. Walking into her bedroom was like walking into her own sanctuary.

Not tonight. Listening to the phone ring, she squeezed her eyes closed. If her sister wasn’t home, heaven knew what she was going to do—maybe take a marathon jog around St. Augustine. She was not only feeling climb-the-walls wide awake, but sober as a judge.

That kiss from Spence could sober anyone up... although she was trying her her damnedest to work up a good case of denial. Surely it never really happened. Surely it was her imagination that he’d knocked her knickers off with that kiss. Surely it was her rum-clouded memory that made her think she’d responded to him like a wild cat.

She couldn’t conceivably have responded to Spence with abandon. He was her neighbor. A good neighbor. He was also an experienced, sophisticated hunk. She was tuna noodle casserole and he was lobster. There was nothing wrong with being tuna noodle casserole, but man, to have him think she was sexually attracted to him was beyond mortifying. She’d never doubted that Spence ran across his share of female movers and shakers in his business life. He was probably dying of embarrassment that she’d responded to him like...well, like some sad stereotype of a sex-starved divorcee.

She hoped he’d forget it.

If he couldn’t forget it, she hoped she’d explained enough times about her inexperience with rum.

Actually, she desperately hoped that if she just kept mentally denying it, maybe she could convince herself it never happened.

“Gwen! I tried to call you earlier, but you were out—I hope partying big-time. How’d the big three-oh birthday go?”

There. Her sister finally answered, and Paige’s familiar alto soothed her nerves like balm for a sore. “The day’s been fine, and oh, Paige, the cameo is just breathtaking. I couldn’t love it more. Thank you so much!”

Paige let out a breathy sigh. “Whew. So glad you liked it. I wanted it right ... not just some pretty piece of artwork, but something personal between you and me.”

Sitting Indian-style on the bed, the phone cupped to her ear, Gwen touched the cameo pendant with soft fingers. “It was personal. More than personal. The look of the woman in the profile almost gave me the shivers... she almost seemed to look like me”