Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(110)

I nodded. “Thank you for the conversation.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. I mean it.”

No one spoke as Eleanor poured hot water into her cup, reached into the teapot I’d prepared, and took a tea bag. Glancing around the counters as she left, she called over her shoulder. “Turn the lights off when you go to bed. And if you find the clicker, put it above the TV. It’s been missing since Saturday.”

Then she was gone.

No one moved for half a minute, maybe more. I studied Dan’s back, the rigidity of his shoulders, the stiffness in his spine. Seamus’s posture was more relaxed, but he looked equally surly.

I decided I wanted tea.

“Anyone want tea?”

Dan shook his head. “He was just leaving.”

“Tea sounds lovely.” Seamus, his eyes on Dan, pushed away from the counter and sauntered to the kitchen table, taking the seat Eleanor had sat in earlier.

I poured hot water from the kettle into the teapot, thinking to myself that I would look at this old blue willow teapot and always remember this moment. I moved around Dan to the table, setting down the steeping tea and three teacups.

“Dan?” I asked, turning, finding his eyes on me.

He gave his head a subtle shake, the muscle at his jaw jumping.

I walked to him and placed a hand on his arm while he watched me. Gazing into his eyes and not liking his stony, aloof expression, I lifted on my toes and placed a light kiss on his mouth. His arms immediately unfolded and his hands came to my waist. It felt good to kiss him, to feel his hands on me—so, so good—and my body reacted in an instinctual way, relaxing, pressing closer.

Leaning just my torso away, I gave him a smile, whispering. “Chamomile or Earl Grey?”

He was frowning, but some of the ice in his eyes melted. “I fucking hate that guy.”

“I can tell.” I gave him another quick kiss, I was addicted to his mouth. “Your mom said to be nice.”

“He’s still breathing, isn’t he? This is me being nice.”

I leaned closer again. “Dan.”

He tilted his head to the side, saying, “Kit-Kat,” and a tiny shiver raced down my spine. He’d lowered his voice to the naughty-secret level.

Warmth, like a hot hand on cool skin, blossomed in my stomach. “One cup of tea.”

“I’ll have tea with you,” he lifted his chin toward the table, “after he fucks off.”

“I can hear you,” Seamus sing-songed from behind me.

“Then fuck off,” Dan sing-songed in response.

“You know,” Seamus started conversationally, “I would tell you to go fuck yourself but I’m pretty sure you’d be disappointed.”

“Since you know it all, you should know when to shut the fuck up.” I watched Dan’s luscious lips form the insult, his eyes never leaving mine.

He’s so beautiful. I sighed.

It was a strange thought to have at the moment, but he was beautiful, distractingly so. His eyes, the line of his jaw, the color of his skin, his nose, his stubbornness, his protectiveness, his naughty mouth, his goodness. I could have looked at him all day.

“Please.” I let my gaze roam over his face.

“Why is this so important to you?” he mumbled, sounding curious. “I swear Seamus was conceived by anal sex. There’s no other explanation for him being such an asshole.”

“Because I really, really like your mom. And I know it would make her happy if you made nice with your brother.” His frown deepened, and even frowning he was beautiful. Little starbursts of acute sensation erupted in my chest and behind my eyes, the warmth in my stomach spreading lower as I stared at him and he stared back.

He studied me for a beat, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Because I love looking at you.

. . . Because I’m growing addicted to you.

“One cup,” I whispered, swallowing my emotions and the troubling thought, “and then bedtime.”

His eyes flared, and I realized too late how that had sounded.

But oh well. So what? Maybe it was our bedtime. Maybe it was past our bedtime. My heart rate increased, precariously close to racing, as his eyes moved between mine, and then dropped to my mouth.

“Irish breakfast,” he said, no longer frowning. “And I’ll get it. You sit. You’re not supposed to be cooking.”

He kissed me again, just a light brush of lips, and then his hands slid away. I mourned the loss of him, his heat and closeness, immediately. I wanted to chase after him, stay by his side on his quest for tea, but that was a ridiculous urge. A nutty, neurotic, loco urge.

So, on slightly wobbly legs, I stumbled back to the table and sat/fell into my chair, attempting to get myself under control. Seamus cleared his throat and I blinked him into focus. He was smirking at me, one eyebrow raised.