To her utter horror he draped his arm around her shoulders. His breath felt hot and smelled boozy. “Old friends are important,” he declared. She nodded, not looking at him. Letting go, he crouched over his wine glass. “I’m fucked,” he said, so softly she barely heard him. “I need someone to listen to me.”
“I can listen.” Recognizing she’d slipped into flirt mode but incapable of stopping, she sipped her wine then set it down when it turned to vinegar in her mouth.
“You always were good at that.” He gave her a half-smile and nudged her thigh with his, sending a bolt of lust down her spine and a whirl of memories crowding into her wine-muddled brain.
The two of them had been buddies since forever it seemed. His mother had hired hers to clean house and work in the brewery after Cara’s father had run off with the family bank account. She’d gotten to know all the brothers well but had been drawn to the quiet, polite, athletic redheaded one. Their near-matching hair color made people call them the ginger duo even as they remained friends through junior high.
He had been her first at everything, and she his. They’d fumbled around for a couple of years in high school, plus one in college before parting ways for reasons she didn’t like to think about anymore. By the time she’d dumped him, they’d had sex in more ways and in more locations than she’d thought possible. And to this day, she considered the standard he’d set for her nearly impossible to beat—until recently, of course.
“Well, I’m gonna leave you two old friends to yourselves,” Tricia declared, her voice strained. Cara reached for her arm again.
“No, Tricia, don’t.”
“I’m not interested in a Love-brother sob story, sorry.” She glanced over at the one in question. “Not in the mood.”
“Can’t say as I blame you.” Self-pity had crept into Kieran’s voice.
“Don’t do anything dumb. I mean it.” Her friend’s whisper barely registered in Cara’s ears.
A combination of dazed, loopy, and embarrassingly horny sensations overwhelmed her. Something magnificent seemed imminent, likely a result of the wine swirling around in her bloodstream on top of the too-many gin drinks from dinner. She took a long breath and flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“So, talk. I’m all ears.”
He blinked, put his arm across her seat again, and lunged forward, forcing her to move lest they clonk foreheads. His lips were tempting—way too close. His rough jaw felt perfect under her fingers. The bar faded, leaving her alone with him in a way she never imagined she’d be again.
“Don’t,” she said, even as their lips met again for a slightly longer brief moment.
Eyes clouded, frown deep, he retreated into his own space, propping his elbows on the bar.
“Sorry. Blame the booze.” His voice was rough, which sent a thrill of memory down her spine.
Unable to resist the temptation, she touched his shoulder. “I don’t think I will,” she said, unbelieving even as she dropped her palm onto his leg again. “Let’s go somewhere else to talk.”
“No, Tricia’s right. You don’t deserve to be party to my bullshit.”
“Let me decide that.” Her hand moved higher, making him flinch. She swallowed hard. “I’ve missed you. I’m drunk. Why not take advantage of me?”
His half smile made her unbelievably sad. “You forget who I am, Miss Cara? I’m the nice guy. You’re engaged to some rich lawyer. Oh and hey, so am I. We have no business messing....”
She covered his lips with hers, and this time he didn’t stop her.
Chapter Five
Kieran knew he hovered on the verge of a huge mistake. A colossal one, to be precise—one he would likely never recover from, but it felt so good to have Cara Cooper back in his arms, even in a stupid, hipster, overpriced wine bar. Her lips tasted like coming home, her hair was well-remembered spun silk between his fingers. His whirling brain calmed for the first time in weeks.
He’d been waiting to hear from Melinda for hours, lurking around his shitty apartment drumming his fingertips, and pounding beers to calm his nerves. Finally, she’d sent a text, saying she’d gotten out of a day-long deposition and didn’t want to go out. Trying to convince her otherwise, he’d hinted he’d be at her favorite wine bar in case she changed her mind but she’d never responded. So there he sat, over half-drunk, and making out with his high school sweetheart in front of God and everybody. If he were the type, he’d blame Melinda for it.
A noise somewhere between disgust for acting that way and a lusty moan of desire caught in this throat. He broke their contact, but kept his fingers buried in Cara’s hair. His behavior represented nothing more than hiding from his own truths. He’d avoided Melinda for days following the disastrous family dinner. After waking in the small twin bed from his boyhood with his mouth coated in slimy, hangover cotton, he’d pleaded the flu and she’d not made much of a protest at his continued absence.