The need to say yes bubbled inside her like an underground brook. But she couldn’t do it, not this way—the window a mess, him dizzy with pain and high on medication, her gone completely out of her mind, lacking inhibitions or panties.
She wasn’t there. Not yet.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t.”
His battered face fell. The genuine disappointment touched off her sympathy and underlined her longing. Her throat ached, for both of them.
“I have to return to work.” She gestured. “I’m responsible for changing the window and it must be done tonight.” Brooke took a couple of steps away from him, her feet heavy in the strappy shoes. “I’m sorry. I really am. Some other time, maybe…”
She thought he was going to let her go without another word, but before she’d reached the corner, she heard his footsteps pounding up behind her. Her heart leaped as she spun to face him.
But he didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he dropped his jacket around her shoulders. “Here, you’ll need this.” He wrapped the heavy, faded denim tightly around her body. His arms were bars of steel, hugging her. “It’s chilly out here.”
Their noses met. She tingled all over with the type of fever chill that would normally send her to bed. Not a bad prescription for tonight, either.
“But you’ll be even colder on the motorcycle.” Her voice was barely audible. “Maybe you shouldn’t be driving in your condition.”
“I’ll be okay.” He shifted, his body slowly dragging against hers, radiating heat even through the denim. Touched his tongue to her bottom lip, took a small lick. A thrill shot through her. “I can drive. You’re a good tonic for recovery. Plus, I’ll be extra careful, because I’m coming back for you tomorrow.”
He couldn’t be serious. Perhaps “tomorrow” was the equivalent of “I’ll call you.”
She didn’t know how to respond, but that didn’t really matter since she couldn’t speak. David had placed his lips near hers. She closed her eyes and waited for a kiss that didn’t quite come.
He held her lip between his teeth, ever so gently. Both of his closed around it and he nibbled. She could not move, except to close her eyes with a sound of surrender that came from deep in her throat. His tongue ran back and forth, laving the stimulated flesh he held so delicately.
Back and forth, back and forth. How could he be so patient?
Her nostrils flared, taking in air. She was trying not to pant like an animal. Her tongue had never felt so sensitive in her mouth, flicking and furling in anticipation.
With a long, warm, sucking pull, he released her lip. His face tilted back and he paused for so long she became certain that she’d collapse to the sidewalk with frustration if he didn’t complete the kiss.
The puckish grin returned, the one that lit up his eyes. “Dang, girl, you’re making my head swim.”
She shook her head at him. “Dang, girl? Where are you from?”
The grin dropped away, but he answered lightly enough. “A lil’ do-nothing, go-nowhere town in Georgia.”
“Ah, a Southerner.” As if she couldn’t tell by his accent. “I’m a Bostonian, through and through.”
His gaze skimmed her dress, what there was to see of it. “I like the northern states.”
Out of the weak, wobbly mess that was her mesmerized body, her nipples sprang up like bullets. “But you left the city.”
“Like a skunk running from its own stink.”
She smiled at his exaggerated accent. “And now you’re back…?”
“Visiting friends,” was all he said. He squeezed and released her. “Let me get my bike. I’ll walk you to the door. This might be a ritzy neighborhood, but you still can’t be wandering around alone in that dress.”
Brooke nodded, surprised by how let down she was that he hadn’t asked again for her to go with him. After that kiss, she might not have been able to say no, even though leaving window dressings scattered in public view was strictly against store policy. The conscientious employee part of her should be thrilled that now she could go back inside and finish up the job with no one the wiser except the night watchman.
It would be as if putting on the dress and meeting David Carerra had never happened.
But I’ll know. I’ll remember for the rest of my life that once I could have run off with a sweet-talking stranger, but was too chicken to take the chance.
ON THE WAY to work the next morning, Brooke stopped off at a newsstand and bought the early edition of every newspaper she could find. She took them to a coffee shop and sat down with a double espresso. After working until two in the morning, then tossing and turning in bed when she should have been sleeping, she needed the extra jolt of caffeine.
After a healthy swallow and a mental kick in the scaredy-pants, she paged through the first paper. Nothing. Thank you, God.
She picked up the Insider. The trashy tabloid had never darkened a Winfield doorstep, but she was familiar with it because it had been the guilty pleasure of her mother and her friend, Reba. Primarily Reba, who considered herself an insider in the entertainment industry because she’d done some modeling in the mad, mod world of the sixties and seventies.
Brooke found a small item on an inside page about David’s accident. DISGRACED BASEBALL HERO KISSES CEMENT. Nice.
There were two small photos. Her stomach dropped into her shoes, but a quick scan relieved her anxiety. One showed the overturned motorcycle. The other was of David leaving the hospital with a bruised face and bandaged head, strong-arming a photographer. Brooke was a blur in the corner of the shot, mentioned only as an unidentified female companion. The intimation was that she was a pickup from his night out on the town. She might have been insulted at that, but under the circumstances she could only feel fortunate. She’d lucked out, big time.
The remaining papers were equally unremarkable. One sports reporter speculated about Carerra’s return to the city, suggesting that he would soon rejoin the team. She wondered if that was true. David’s attitude hadn’t been reconciliatory. He’d seemed rather downbeat, in fact, except when he’d been hitting on her.
Brooke left the papers in the coffee shop and hurried on to work. Usually she would come in late the morning after a window change, but there was a department-head meeting today that she had to attend. Alyce was worried that a vanguard of old-time employees were planning to complain again about them pushing O.M. Worthington in a new, trendier direction.
After dropping off her bag in her office and changing from flats to a pair of designer heels, purchased frugally with her employee discount, Brooke rode the elevator to the fourth-floor executive offices. At two and three, several of her coworkers boarded.
“The new window is lovely,” said the housewares manager, a tiny blue-haired lady who’d been at the store so long rumor said that she’d started out selling rug beaters to Victorians.
Floyd Tibbet from accounting harrumphed. “It was a relief to see the last one go.”
