Bittersweet by Noelle Adams Page B

answer, and she liked the rich lilt in his voice.
    He
was a very good uncle. And a very good friend. And a very attractive man.
    She
reached out and patted his chest, feeling the need to affirm all of these
truths about him. “I like you, Adam. I didn’t think I ever would again. But I
do.”
    He
made a choked sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. “Thank you. I like
you too.”
    She
kept patting him. His chest felt nice—hard beneath the softness of his shirt.
And the warmth in his eyes was like a caress. “There’s something I need to tell
you,” she admitted, leaning closer as this wasn’t something to share with the
world at large.
    “What
is it?” His voice changed slightly, but she couldn’t possible interpret what
the change meant.
    She
leaned even closer, almost whispering in his ear. “I need to go to the
bathroom.”
    He
made another choked sound, and this one ended in a dry chuckle. “Well, then you
should certainly do so.” He helped her stand up and walked with her to the
bathroom.
    When
she passed the bedroom door, which was open just a crack, she gasped. “Logan!”
    “He’s
asleep. He did fine tonight.”
    She
nodded and allowed her mind to return to the most pressing concern of the moment—going
to the bathroom.
    “I
think,” she said seriously when she stepped inside, “that I should try to go by
myself.”
    “Yes.
I think that’s an excellent idea,” Adam agreed, his face sober except for the
warmth of his eyes.
    She
nodded in satisfaction, this question having been resolved. Then she shut the
door.
    After
she’d finished, she washed her hands for a long time and stared at herself in
the mirror. Her cheeks were deeply red and her hair was tousled messily around
her face. She smoothed it down with her hands until it hung in a shiny fall to
her waist again.
    Her
arms were bare, and her fair skin stood out starkly against the dark wine color
of her top.
    Her
cleavage was dramatically visible from the deep plunge of the neckline.
    She
liked how she looked. It seemed to suit her mood. And, if Adam didn’t like it,
then that was just his problem.
    He
was waiting outside the door when she opened it.
    “Are
you still here?” she asked.
    “Yes.
I thought I might wait to make sure you were settled before I left.”
    She
couldn’t really follow his line of thought and decided it didn’t really matter.
She glided back into the living room, tripping once on her heels. Annoyed, she
kicked them off.
    “Did
I tell you I danced?” she asked, feeling the music swell up inside her and
compel her into dancing again. She swung her hips rhythmically—her hair swung
with them—and she waved her arms as she turned a few circles.
    “You
did tell me that.” Adam took her by the upper arms and effectively prevented
her from dancing. “Why don’t you sit down again? You must be tired.”
    “I’m
not,” she argued, trying to shake out of his grip. Then she realized that
wasn’t the right approach. “Did you want to dance too?” She twined her arms
around his neck and kept moving her hips. “I bet you’re a good dancer for such
a stuffy man.”
    “Stuffy,
am I?” Adam asked, something warm rippling in his voice. He tried to dislodge
her arms, but she didn’t let him.
    She
liked his rippling voice, and she liked the dark warmth of his eyes. And she
liked the way he kept trying not to look at her cleavage. And she liked how
hard and masculine he felt against her.
    “Yes,
stuffy. Always holding things back.”
    “Some
things need to be held back.”
    “Why?”
She didn’t like the idea of his holding so much beneath the layers of who he was.
It bothered her a lot.
    “Because
sometimes it’s the only way to do the right thing.”
    “The
right thing is boring.” She pressed up against him more fully, still trying to
keep up the rhythm of her dancing. “Why won’t you dance with me?” she demanded,
frustrated by his continued attempts to pull away.
    “Zoe,”
Adam began,