Starstruck. Julie Kenner
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to make it real. Because at the moment, she didn’t feel sorry at all. She felt incredibly turned on, and that really wasn’t good.
She turned away, scrubbing her face in her hands. “I mean, that was really beyond the pale, wasn’t it?” She’d kissed him.
And good Lord, but that had been one hell of a kiss. Soft, yet firm. Demanding, yet sweet. The kind of kiss that not only soaked a girl’s panties, but had her thinking about pink roses and hand-holding.
Dear God, what had she been thinking? Not only did she not want to go there with Chris, but he had never once given her any hint that he was remotely interested in her.
Or, rather, he’d never given her any hint before five minutes ago. Because from the way he’d kissed her back…from the way his hands had stroked her…the way he’d felt, all hot and hard as he’d pressed up against her…either he was a very good actor, or there was some definite interest going on there.
And though she told herself there was absolutely no way she would repeat that kiss or go any further whatsoever, her own body was calling her out as a liar. Her damp panties. The way her skin seemed to tingle like someone standing next to fifty thousand volts of raw electricity. And her nipples, now hard as rocks under her thin pajama top. Not good. Definitely not good.
Since she really couldn’t have a conversation with him about how that kiss was a mistake if her body was screaming otherwise, she ducked into the bathroom for a robe to toss on over her pajamas, then came out hoping she looked cool and collected. “I…um…I’ve been drinking schnapps.”
“Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“It’s just that Claire was here earlier, and we were drinking and talking about sex and—” She stopped. Her rambling was definitely not improving things.
“Anyway, I, um, totally stepped out of line and I’m really sorry and really embarrassed and—”
“Alyssa,” he said, an obvious smile in his voice. “It’s okay. I get it.”
She pretty much sagged in relief. “Really? It’s just—the schnapps, and—”
“Seriously. I get it.”
“Right. Of course.” Of course he got it. He was probably as mortified as she was. He was a guy, though, so was it any wonder his body had sprung to attention? He was probably happy to push the whole thing behind them fast, fast, fast.
He waved toward the hall closet. “So what exactly were you doing?” He turned before she could answer and moved into her kitchen. She heard the water running, and by the time she arrived behind him, she saw that he’d splashed water on his face and was patting himself dry with a towel.
“I’ve got cocoa in the slow cooker,” she said, wishing a million times over that she could erase this sudden awkwardness between him.
“Sounds good.” He knew her kitchen as well as she did, and grabbed a holiday mug for himself, then fixed cocoa with just a splash of schnapps. “How about you? A refill?”
“I don’t know,” she said wryly. “Schnapps seems to be dangerous to me.”
As she’d hoped, he laughed. But what she hadn’t expected was the heat in his eyes when he said, “I’ve never run from danger.”
“Chris…”
He held his hands up. “Just lightening the moment.”
“Sorry. I’m still edgy.” She ran her fingers through her hair. This was Chris. As good a friend as Claire. She should not be feeling all awkward and weird around him. “Too much holiday cheer. Not to mention holiday sugar.” She squinted at him. “And it’s late. Why did you come over here, anyway? It’s Saturday, shouldn’t you have a hot date like the rest of the human race except me?”
“Working,” he said.
She perked up. “Are you doing another article? You were complaining last month that you were going to run out of rent money early next year and—”
“I’m cool,” he said. “And yeah, I have another job in the pipe. But I’ve been working on the next Max Dalton book.”
“Oh.”
He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel, Alyssa.”
She could feel her cheeks heat. “I love your book, you know I do,” she said, meaning every word. “But wouldn’t it make more sense to cram in a few more articles? Really pad your bank account?”
“Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming,” he said with a lazy grin. “But if I worked all the time, when would I play?”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t play. You either work for money or you work for free. I just think you should—”
“Work for money. I know.” He shrugged. “Hopefully I am. My agent seems really encouraged.”
“Yeah? That’s awesome.”
“But?” he asked, his tone so teasing she almost rolled her eyes.
“Fine. Fine.” She held up her hands in self-defense. “Pretty soon you’ll tell me I sound like your mother, so I’m dropping it. But I have two words before I do.”
“Good times?” he teased.
“Retirement plan,” she said.
He nodded. “Don’t worry. Got it covered.”
And since she was quite certain that he didn’t, she decided that was her cue to drop the subject. In truth, his work ethic impressed her. She knew he was perpetually broke, of course, but at least he knew what he wanted, and he threw himself after it wholeheartedly. She just wished he was a little smarter about the whole thing. Or at least smarter than her dad had been. Because her parents were heading into retirement with little more than dust in their IRAs, and while Alyssa would do what she could to help them out, she’d hardly reached the point where she was made of money, and she was desperately afraid that her childhood would be repeated in their old age, and they’d lose the house that they’d bought during her senior year of high school.
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