lightest of touches. If he’d kissed her hard or pulled her fast and tight, she might have had the presence of mind to break away. But he was stealthy in his approach, slipping past her defenses, his actions so soothing that she didn’t realize her mistake.
The kiss deepened.
It felt good. It felt great.
She stepped forward, bringing her body against his, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. His hand moved along the small of her back, splaying warm and smooth against her spine.
Her lips parted, and he groaned, pulling back, breaking the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She felt her face heat in embarrassment. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
Then she remembered the part she was supposed to be playing. Girls like Francie didn’t get rattled by a kiss. So instead of apologizing, she gave him a sultry smile and walked her fingers down his chest before dropping her hand to her side. “No problem. Just so we’re clear on Quentin.”
Brody looked confused for a moment. Then he seemed to give himself a little shake. “Glad we got that out of the way.”
She wanted to ask him if it was the question of Quentin that was now out of the way, or if their kiss was the thing that was out of the way. Had he been curious about kissing her? Had he been disappointed? Was he moving on?
A dozen questions bloomed in her mind, but she couldn’t ask any of them. The kiss was definitely out of the way. It was done. She was moving past it, past Brody, and back on to Annabelle.
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