Page 7 of Falling for Keeps

She runs her hand up my stomach, fisting the front of my shirt, her eyes never leaving mine. This is the hottest thing that’s happened to me in a while. When she tugs lightly on my shirt, it does wild things to my heart rate. There’s no question she’s feeling the attraction and pull between us. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself feel like this, and I’m ready to put aside Carson The Dad and Carson The Terrible Husband and Carson The Responsible Adult for just ten minutes. None of those personas follow me into this hazy moment when I ignore any sense of chivalry and slip my hand over her hip. Her short inhale sends heat flooding through me, and that’s it. I’ve lost it. I literally can’t take it anymore. I close the distance as she tugs me closer, slanting my lips over her warm mouth.

Emma makes a soft, startled sound before diving in and kissing me back, and I think I see stars. My hand tightens at her side, enough to pull her closer, and she comes willingly, sliding off the stool until our bodies are flush. Her fingers stay twisted in my shirt, making it pull tight across my shoulder blades, and she tastes sweetly of maraschino cherries.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing like we just finished a race neither of us planned on entering. Or maybe I did subconsciously. Every choice I made tonight led to this moment, and I’m not at all ashamed or regretful. Kissing Emma proved I’m capable of feeling again, which is extraordinarily dramatic, but also a relief.

I’m not ready for a relationship, but all is not lost. Now I can confidently say that losing Jen didn’t mean losing companionship forever.

I let out a sigh. “Can I walk you out?”

“I’m not leaving until my friends are ready,” she whispers.

My eyes hold hers. “Then can you walk me out?”

Emma nods, letting me take her hand and lead her through the busy crowd. I hold the door open and walk her down the sidewalk until we’re well past a couple smoking, then I gently press her against the wall. She watches me silently, but when her eyes flick back to my mouth, her tongue sweeping over her bottom lip, I’m done for.

Leaning in, I hold her gently and lower my lips to hers.

Emma

How long does a kiss hangover last? I think my genetic makeup underwent a complete change Saturday night at the bar in Burlington. I got loopy drunk off Carson Price, and now I’m reeling. He infused me with every warm Cinderella fantasy I’ve dreamed up over the last five hundred romance novels I’ve read, then disappeared at midnight like an enchanted pumpkin.

But it was worth it. Now, back in my prim librarian clothes and sensible shoes, the memory of that kiss will sustain me. I’m almost afraid to run into his mom, because I’m certain she’ll be able to see right through me the moment we make eye contact.

Which is going to happen soon, because I’m the idiot who slept in yesterday and forgot to feed Sour Dan. Now he’s struggling and I’m totally out of flour. I’m due at work in twenty minutes, and I’m not about to sacrifice the best sourdough starter I’ve ever had just because I can’t bear to see Sharon after mauling her son this weekend.

Okay, that’s not a fair representation. Who mauled whom? I pulled him closer first, yeah, but he was giving me those come-hither eyes all freaking night, and it was my fairy tale hour.

The dress dissolved into sweats once I got everyone home safely and my car turned back into a pumpkin when I pulled into my driveway. But I wouldn’t trade anything for that hour of living like a completely different person.

I pull out the heating mat and turn it on low, then set my jar on top. It takes less than a minute to get ready for work, tossing a granola bar and my water into the canvas bag with my book. I throw all of it onto the front seat of my car and carry my measuring cup to the road. We live on a small country lane right outside of Autumn Ridge, close enough to walk into town if I really needed some steps, but far enough out to see rolling green hills laced with fog beneath the explosion of fall leaves and orange and yellow trees. The crisp air is fresh and cool, making me pull my sweater tighter while I hurry up the steps to Sharon’s house.

My knock goes unanswered, so I twist the knob and push the door open. “Hi, Sharon,” I call out. She’s home or the door would be locked. “I’m taking a cup of flour.”

There’s no response, which is normal. She’s probably sleeping off a late night at the hospital. I don’t know anyone who works as hard as Sharon does, and now that she’s working toward becoming a nurse practitioner, she’s twice as busy.

The sound of silverware hitting a bowl comes from the kitchen, so I close the door and head toward the open doorway. “Sour Dan needs to be fed, and I’m all out⁠—”

My words die swiftly when I step into the kitchen and come face to face with a child. Her round, green eyes blink at me as her cereal spoon hovers over a bowl full of Cheerios. She’s in pajamas, and her long, blonde hair is tangled like she got in a fight with a racoon.

“Hi,” I say, dragging the word out. My heart is going a thousand beats a minute. It doesn’t take a PhD to figure out that this is probably Sharon’s only grandchild. I’ve seen enough photos of her on the fridge over the past few years to know generally what she looks like. I also know Maven doesn’t have any kids.

Which leaves Carson. The man who made out with me Saturday night and told me he was leaving town so it couldn’t go anywhere.

“Who are you?” she asks.

I clear my throat. “Emma. I live across the street.”

“I’m Penny.”

“You must be Sharon’s granddaughter.”

Her smile reveals a missing tooth on the bottom, a couple spots to the right of her front teeth. “Why did you walk into the house without knocking?”

I knocked, but I’m also not going to argue with a child. “I wanted to borrow some flour from⁠—”

A door shuts down the hall, making me jump.

“You ready, Pen?” a man calls. “We need to leave soon.”