The Innocent's Shock Pregnancy. Carol Marinelli
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that she usually did so easily suddenly felt new and unfamiliar.
From walking to breathing, she had to focus anew over and over again.
She tidied up the gallery as he wandered around, looking again at the exhibitions.
‘I’ll go and get changed,’ Merida said, but he gave a brief shake of his head.
‘No need.’
In the tiny staffroom Merida wondered if Gemma would mind if the little black dress and pearls were taken out for the night. Surely any woman would understand?
Merida re-tied her hair and then topped up her lipstick. She placed her kilt, jumper and boots in her bag and slipped on her trench coat. When she came out of the staffroom he had given up on the exhibits and was scrolling through his phone.
She did her usual walk-around, and Ethan said he’d wait outside as she finished up.
In fact, aware that she was somewhat distracted by the six feet two of testosterone waiting for her, Merida took extra care, turning off the computer and lights and then setting the alarm and locking up with diligence.
When the gallery was secured, she stepped onto the chilly street and turned—and there he was.
Merida wished there was a code that might secure her heart.
She stood watching the most beautiful man on the most beautiful street lounging against the wall, and then he turned to walk towards her, his long coat flapping behind him in the breeze.
‘There’s something else that I forgot,’ Ethan said.
‘Oh?’
She cast her mind again to keys and laptops, whatever it was that she might have locked up in the gallery, and it took a second for her to register to what he was referring.
It wasn’t just asking her to dinner that he’d forgotten. Ethan had omitted a kiss.
On a night that was turning a bit chilly, and under a sky that was being painted a dusky rose, the setting was photo-perfect.
Merida wanted to capture the dusk of the park, the yellow of the taxis—how the world appeared in the seconds before he kissed her. She would be kissed here, Merida realised, and this moment would be seared in her memory for life.
He cupped her face in her hands and she stared deep into his eyes. While there was not a fleck of colour that she could perceive in his gaze, there was depth and complexity and hues from another realm.
He was perfect.
And so was his kiss.
His lips were firm, yet with traces of tenderness. She wanted to keep her eyes open, just to capture each second, yet there was no chance of that, for his kiss was so exquisite that her eyes closed, so that she could fully sink into its measured bliss.
He pulled her closer, and she was wrapped in the warmth of his arms as the cool spring air between them evaporated. His tongue was warm, and tasted like a cocktail designed solely for her. She felt dizzy, yet steady in the capture of his embrace, and when he kissed her harder the roughness of his jaw and the smoky notes of his cologne inflamed her.
She kissed him back with an ardour that had been missing in every other kiss and in her every imagining to date.
And then—cruelly, but necessarily—before they edged towards the indecent, he tore his mouth away.
He had started their date with a kiss.
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