two.”
“Wait.” She slapped a hand on his chest. “Mmm, nice pecs, by the way. But wait.” Lifting her still tingling arm she pushed back her hair. “Jack, what are we doing?”
“If I have to explain it, I’m doing it wrong.”
“No, really. I mean . . .” She glanced down at her open shirt, and the lacy white bra perkily peeking out. “Look at us. Look at me.”
“Believe me, I was. Am. Want to keep doing that. You have this seriously crazy body. I just want to—”
“Yes, I get that. Back at you, but, Jack, we can’t just . . . We got off the track here.”
“Down the track, heading for home, from my viewpoint. Give me five minutes to mesh viewpoints. One. Give me one.”
“It would probably take under thirty seconds. But no,” she added when he grinned. “Really. We can’t just do this, like this. Or at all. Maybe.” Everything inside her hitched and sparked and wanted .
“I’m not sure. We need to think, muse, mull, maybe ponder and brood. Jack, we’re friends.”
“I’m feeling pretty damn friendly.”
Her eyes went soft as she reached out to lay her hand on his cheek. “We’re friends.”
“We are.”
“More, we have friends who are friends. So many connections. So as much as I’d like to say ‘what the hell, let’s try out that couch, then the bed and maybe take round three on the floor—’ ”
“Emmaline.” His eyes were deep, dark smoke. “You’re killing me.”
“Sex isn’t a kiss on the back stairs. Even a really great kiss on the back stairs. So we have to think and so on before we decide. I refuse to not be friends with you, Jack, just because right now I really want you naked. You’re important.”
He heaved a sigh. “I wish you hadn’t said that. You’re important. You always have been.”
“Then let’s take a little time and think this through.” She eased back and began to button her shirt.
“You don’t know how sorry I am to see you do that.”
“Yes, I do. About as sorry as I am to do it. Don’t get up,” she said, and got to her feet, picked up the purse she’d dropped when he’d grabbed her. “If it’s any consolation, I’m going to have a miserable night thinking about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t stopped to think.”
“It isn’t, because I’m going to have the same.”
“Well.” She glanced back as she headed for the door. “You started it.”
I N THE MORNING, AFTER THE PREDICTED MISERABLE NIGHT, Emma wanted the comfort of pals and Mrs. Grady’s pancakes. She bargained with herself. She could have the pals, no question, but she could only have the pancakes if she first faced the dreaded home gym.
She dragged on her gear and began the resented, caffeine-deprived trudge to the main house. On the way, she veered toward Mac’s studio. She could see no good reason why her friend shouldn’t suffer along with her.
Without thinking she walked right in, angled toward the kitchen. There was Mac, in cotton boxers and a tank, leaning against the counter with a wide grin and a cup of coffee. And Carter opposite her, mirroring the pose and the grin, in his tweed jacket.
She should’ve knocked, Emma thought instantly. She had to remember to start knocking now that Carter lived here, too.
Mac glanced her way, lifted her cup in casual greeting. “Hey.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you out of coffee again?”
“No, I—”
“There’s plenty,” Carter told her. “I made a full pot.”
Emma gave him a sorrowful look. “I don’t know why you have to marry her instead of me.”
The tips of his ears went a little pink, but he shrugged. “Well, maybe if things don’t work out . . .”
“He thinks he’s cute,” Mac said dryly. “And damn it, he’s right.” She stepped over, gave his tie a tug.
The kiss was light and sweet, to Emma’s eye. The kind of morning kiss between lovers who knew there would be time, lots of time, for deeper, hotter kisses.
She envied the light and sweet
“Wait.” She slapped a hand on his chest. “Mmm, nice pecs, by the way. But wait.” Lifting her still tingling arm she pushed back her hair. “Jack, what are we doing?”
“If I have to explain it, I’m doing it wrong.”
“No, really. I mean . . .” She glanced down at her open shirt, and the lacy white bra perkily peeking out. “Look at us. Look at me.”
“Believe me, I was. Am. Want to keep doing that. You have this seriously crazy body. I just want to—”
“Yes, I get that. Back at you, but, Jack, we can’t just . . . We got off the track here.”
“Down the track, heading for home, from my viewpoint. Give me five minutes to mesh viewpoints. One. Give me one.”
“It would probably take under thirty seconds. But no,” she added when he grinned. “Really. We can’t just do this, like this. Or at all. Maybe.” Everything inside her hitched and sparked and wanted .
“I’m not sure. We need to think, muse, mull, maybe ponder and brood. Jack, we’re friends.”
“I’m feeling pretty damn friendly.”
Her eyes went soft as she reached out to lay her hand on his cheek. “We’re friends.”
“We are.”
“More, we have friends who are friends. So many connections. So as much as I’d like to say ‘what the hell, let’s try out that couch, then the bed and maybe take round three on the floor—’ ”
“Emmaline.” His eyes were deep, dark smoke. “You’re killing me.”
“Sex isn’t a kiss on the back stairs. Even a really great kiss on the back stairs. So we have to think and so on before we decide. I refuse to not be friends with you, Jack, just because right now I really want you naked. You’re important.”
He heaved a sigh. “I wish you hadn’t said that. You’re important. You always have been.”
“Then let’s take a little time and think this through.” She eased back and began to button her shirt.
“You don’t know how sorry I am to see you do that.”
“Yes, I do. About as sorry as I am to do it. Don’t get up,” she said, and got to her feet, picked up the purse she’d dropped when he’d grabbed her. “If it’s any consolation, I’m going to have a miserable night thinking about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t stopped to think.”
“It isn’t, because I’m going to have the same.”
“Well.” She glanced back as she headed for the door. “You started it.”
I N THE MORNING, AFTER THE PREDICTED MISERABLE NIGHT, Emma wanted the comfort of pals and Mrs. Grady’s pancakes. She bargained with herself. She could have the pals, no question, but she could only have the pancakes if she first faced the dreaded home gym.
She dragged on her gear and began the resented, caffeine-deprived trudge to the main house. On the way, she veered toward Mac’s studio. She could see no good reason why her friend shouldn’t suffer along with her.
Without thinking she walked right in, angled toward the kitchen. There was Mac, in cotton boxers and a tank, leaning against the counter with a wide grin and a cup of coffee. And Carter opposite her, mirroring the pose and the grin, in his tweed jacket.
She should’ve knocked, Emma thought instantly. She had to remember to start knocking now that Carter lived here, too.
Mac glanced her way, lifted her cup in casual greeting. “Hey.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you out of coffee again?”
“No, I—”
“There’s plenty,” Carter told her. “I made a full pot.”
Emma gave him a sorrowful look. “I don’t know why you have to marry her instead of me.”
The tips of his ears went a little pink, but he shrugged. “Well, maybe if things don’t work out . . .”
“He thinks he’s cute,” Mac said dryly. “And damn it, he’s right.” She stepped over, gave his tie a tug.
The kiss was light and sweet, to Emma’s eye. The kind of morning kiss between lovers who knew there would be time, lots of time, for deeper, hotter kisses.
She envied the light and sweet
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