Longest Night by Kara Braden

had yet to tease out precisely why.
    The rucksack Ian wore over his new parka was a heavy, unfamiliar weight. Cecily had insisted they both carry emergency supplies, though she’d also warned him not to stray too far from her side.
    Not that Ian planned on letting her get away from him that easily. After last night, he was more interested in her, not less, but she seemed to have gone the opposite way. She was friendly and courteous, but she’d reverted to the polite, quiet distance of their first days together.
    That thought naturally made him recall the life he’d left behind in Manhattan, and he stopped, feeling the cold air nip at his skin and bite at his throat as he breathed. His eyes went to Cecily’s back as he realized he’d be going back alone.
    To his surprise, he found he didn’t want that. Oh, he desperately wanted to get back to Manhattan. He’d already been away for far too long. He needed the comfort and intellectual challenge of his old life more deeply than he craved painkillers to ease the ache in his back.
    He closed his eyes, immersing himself in the sense-memory of the smell and sound and sight of a thousand windows looking out into the Manhattan night, every one of them hiding the possibility of mystery and intrigue, danger and pleasure, and he realized at that moment that he didn’t just want to go back. He wanted Cecily to go back with him. He wanted to see how she, after years of self-imposed isolation, would react to his city.
    Forget the tourist destinations and arts and culture. Ian would take her to the hidden city underneath the public veneer. He’d show her the buildings lost in time and the forgotten streets and unknown restaurants. They’d dine at the tiny cafes with no menus, where no one spoke English, and they’d watch the street performers and visit the hidden parks where nature flourished in the shadow of old brownstones. He’d take her into his world of nightclubs and private parties—and that was an image that nearly overloaded his imagination, Cecily not in some little black dress but in tight designer jeans and a silk shirt, maybe in deep forest green to complement her hair.
    Cecily’s sigh scattered the distracting thoughts. He opened his eyes, glad that he’d bought a parka that hung well past his hips, hiding the evidence of his unintended arousal. He saw her standing a careful eight feet away. Her gloved hands were shoved into her pockets.
    â€œLook, I know this must be…uncomfortable,” she said apologetically. She was turned to face him, but he had the impression that her gaze was averted, hidden behind the sunglasses. “Why don’t we just go back? I can take you to Mags’s house on the quad. The snow’s not too deep. It’s safe enough.”
    So much for a manufactured excuse to bridge the distance between them. Now he physically crossed that distance, watching the way Cecily tensed, not to attack or defend but to back away. But she didn’t actually move, which was encouraging, and he didn’t stop until he was only a foot away, close enough that their winter-fogged breath mingled in a pale cloud between them.
    â€œMuch as I look forward to returning to Manhattan, I have no interest in doing so now. And I have no desire to spend any significant time with your neighbor,” he said, letting his voice pitch low and smooth.
    Cecily shifted her weight, and Ian caught her sleeve, silently cursing the bulky jackets and gloves that separated them both. At the touch, she went still, saying, “Ian—”
    â€œCecily,” he interrupted quietly. He wanted to pull away her sunglasses, but he sensed that she needed that little artificial shield. If Ian pushed too hard, she would shut down completely, and he might never get another chance at her. Even this might be too much, but Ian had to try.
    Lightly holding her sleeve, he raised his free hand and used his teeth to tug off the