“That secondary deal is a recent development. It can’t be counted.”
My head tips up so I can really take him in. The slightly messy hair, the light dusting of facial scruff. Intelligent eyes, irises darkening with lust.
Pushing up on tiptoe, I press my lips to the spacebelow his ear. “It does sweeten the deal, though, doesn’t it?”
“Paisley,” he says, pulling back, tucking the pads of two fingers below my chin so he can look directly into my eyes. “I could have a G-rated week with you, and it would be just as sweet.”
I drag my gaze to the side, needing a break from the intensity. He’s only waxing poetic, right? He’s doing what he does so well.Weaving words into emotional prose.Isn’t that what Sienna was picking up on earlier?
“Lovebirds,” someone yells. We turn in unison, seeking out the voice in the dark.
Shane flickers the front light as he stands in the doorway, holding the door open. “Are you planning on joining us this evening?” He points at Klein. “I have a Cuban with your name on it.”
Klein is the first to move, but he keeps a hold of my hand. We pass by Shane as we step into the house, and I feel the weight of his gaze on my face.
“Everyone’s in the kitchen,” he says, following us inside. “That’s where the food is.” We follow the sounds of music and talking.
Farhana is the first to spot us. She waves me in, grabbing a flute and filling it with bubbly. “For the maid of honor,” she says, handing it over. “Klein, can I get you anything?”
“A beer, if you have it.”
“Of course we do,” Shane interrupts. “Hope you like IPA.”
“That works,” Klein says, nodding his thanks when Shane hands it over.
“Do you like IPA?” I whisper, poking at the sailfish on the paper covering the bottle.
“This one is good. Some are obnoxious in their attempt to be burly.” He tips the bottle so he can study the branding. “This one is... nautical. Fitting.”
Shane pulls Klein into conversation with his groomsmen, bloviating about venture capital. Klein doesn’t give two shits about anything related to the financial services industry, but he politely listens. My sister complains to her half of the bridal party about a guest who declined, but reached out today, asking if there would be room for them after all. “And a plus one!” she exclaims, shuddering at the wedding etiquette faux pas.
I look over at Klein. He’s leaning against the island, his posture relaxed. When he takes a drink from his beer, his eyes find mine, and stay there. The corners of my lips lift automatically, without me having to think much about it. Just looking at him puts a smile on my face.
Retrieving my phone from my purse, I type out a message to him.
How are you feeling? Your sting ok?
He takes his phone from his pocket and reads my message.
What sting?
He winks at me.
Suppressed laughter ripples my shoulders.
My lips did the job then? Literally.
He grins crookedly.
Yes. They did.
I make a big show of sighing silently, lifting up my shoulders and dropping them dramatically.
I hate to break it to you, but I think you may have impregnated me.
He sends me a concerned look, teasing.
Perhaps you missed that day in reproductive education, but those body systems don’t connect.
