“Listen,” she said sternly.
“Listening.”
“This is…” She sawed her hand back and forth between them. “What you’re doing is a classic psychological phenomenon. Transference. That’s what it’s called.”
“I’ve never heard it called that. I’ve heard it called necking, smooching, pitching woo, making whoopee, making out—”
“Will you stop with the joking, please?”
“—mugging, foreplay, kissing, French kissing.”
“We weren’t kissing.”
“Not yet.” He cupped her face between his hands and planted his lips firmly against hers. And then less firmly. Then tenderly. And when he slanted them across hers, hers parted. “Mitch,” she sighed.
“Hmm?”
Whatever she had intended to say was never said. He slidhis tongue between her lips. It flirted with hers until she realized she was seeking his, inviting it deeper into her mouth. Without breaking contact, he tilted his head, found a better angle, and each sank into the kiss, which was definitely French.
His hand on her cheek moved to the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. His other hand slipped inside her jacket and settled on her waist, urging her closer until they were bumping middles.
Then the bumping stopped, and after one slight adjustment they stayed in place, fitted together so perfectly that he made a growling sound, pressed more firmly into the complementing depression, and lowered his hand from her waist to her bottom.
Although she was lost in the deliciousness of the kiss and the pleasure spreading from where they were snugly joined, the squeeze of his fingers against the seat of her jeans brought her back to reality. She jerked herself away from him and stumbled back a step.
She stared at him in dismay. By reflex, she reached up and touched her lips. They were damp with the taste of him—the marvelous taste of him—verifying how ardent his kiss had been, how fervently she’d kissed him back, and affirming how badly she wanted him to kiss her more, to touch her, to touch her everywhere, every part of her that was feverish and achy and yearning, and not to stop touching.
All that she desired from him in that moment was mistimed, misplaced, and so, so wrong.
She drew a swift but deep breath, then let it out on a whimper, “Oh, God.”
He spoke her name as a plea and reached for her.
She backed away from his extended hand, gave a hard shake of her head, turned away from him, and ran to her car.
Chapter 16
Mitch had texted John that he needed to take the morning off to go to Lafayette, but he hadn’t said why. As soon as Mitch got to his desk shortly after one o’clock, John came over even before he had sat down.
“What’s going on in Lafayette?”
Mitch told him about the preschool enrollment. “Mary had no right. Made me mad as hell.”
“I don’t blame you. That was low of her.”
“Or high-handed. Either way, I missed out on taking Andrew myself, tried to make up for it this morning.”
“How’d that go over?”
Mitch had arrived at the Duvalls’ house in time for breakfast. In a petty but satisfying gesture of defiance, he’d brought with him a box of Froot Loops. When it had come time to leave for the ten o’clock meeting at the school, Mary had picked up her handbag and started out with Andrew and him.
“I’ve got this, Mary.”
It had taken a moment to register with her that she was being excluded. “But I need to introduce you to Andrew’s teacher.”
“I’ll introduce myself.”
“But—”
