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He moved around the room and poured them each another small splash of wine, something easy and red. Amy wondered if he just needed something to do with his hands—the coffee, the cake, the wine.
“Can I ask you something?” she said. “Sully’s obviously short for Sullivan, but what is your first name, really?”
He chuckled. “Unfortunately, it’s Diarmid—an old Irish family name. Always felt like I’d have to learn to joust or something to carry it off.”
She grinned. “Diarmid. Huh. I’ll stick with Sully.”
“That’s probably wise. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me by it.”
The music slipped into a slower tune. Gentle, not quite blues, not quite waltz. He extended a hand with a small, uncertain smile. “You dance, Ms. York?”
“Not recently,” she said, rising to her feet and placing her hand in his.
He drew her close, one arm at her waist. The room seemed to shrink with every swing of the song, the faint shuffle of their steps the only other sound. She breathed in the scent of him—soap and wine. His thumb skimmed the edge of her spine; her pulse kept pace with the rhythm beneath his palm.
When the track changed, neither of them stepped away. Their bodies continued to sway to the music. The kiss happened almost by gravity. Slow, certain, the world quieting around them.
Sully wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. She felt enveloped in his warmth, his lips gentle on hers. She moved her hands from his shoulders to press her palms against his chest, arching slightly as she opened herself to him. Heat flared between them as Sully’s lips found her neck, pulling her tighter against him. Liquid warmth surged through her, and she sighed as he found her mouth again.
Somewhere behind them, a glass tipped and fell, shattering softly against the floor.
They broke apart on a breath, laughter—half shock, half release—rising between them. She pressed a hand to his chest; he caught her wrist lightly.
“Guess the universe has opinions,” she murmured.
He smiled, and his voice was rough at the edges. “We’ve known each other too long to rush something we might wreck… I don’t have a great track record.”
“Neither do I.”
For a moment, it hung there, on the fragile line between restraint and desire, between what could wait and what might not survive the waiting.
Then she nodded, still close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
“I should head back soon,” she whispered. “Ollie gets impatient.”
“Yeah,” he breathed.
They stood a moment longer before parting. The faint swing of the music carried the seconds between them, the air rich with something newly alive.
Chapter 23
The road back wound through tall pines silvered by moonlight. They barely spoke—small phrases, the occasional shared laugh, the hum of the truck filling the spaces between. His hand rested on the gearshift, hers inches away. The air felt charged again, though neither moved to bridge it.
When they turned into her drive, Ollie’s bark cut through the quiet. It was a booming, joyous sound that grounded the moment. Amy smiled, grateful for the interruption. The dog bounded out when she opened the door, tail wagging, head thrust eagerly into Sully’s palm as he laughed.
“Hey, big guy,” he said, scratching behind Ollie’s ears. “You keeping out of trouble?”
They lingered by the steps. Ollie circled their legs before trotting back inside. For a moment, the world shrank to soft porch light and the faint hush of the ocean down the bluff. Neither seemed willing to end the night.
Amy cleared her throat. “Thank you for dinner, the cake—and the dance.”
His grin was slow, a little uneven. “Thank you for agreeing to go with me.”
He leaned in—hesitant at first—then kissed her. The goodnight kiss was nothing like the one before. Softer. Lingering. A question whispered against her bottom lip.
When it broke, she stayed a breath away. Her fingertips grazed the collar of his shirt. “Goodnight, Sully.”
“Goodnight, Amy,” he said and turned toward his truck. Gravel crunched under his boots until the sound faded into the rhythm of cicadas.
