What had he been thinking?
He’d shown Christine his scar. She was nosier than any Harmony Valley resident he’d encountered so far and she could easily weasel the truth out of him. Given time. And her easy smile.
He’d opened up his house to her. The house that was his penance and his refuge. An error in judgment.
He hadn’t told her a kiss was a monumentally stupid idea. Because...because...
He wanted that kiss. How he wanted that kiss.
It had snuck up on him, this wanting. As if he’d held himself back from everyone, even his closest friends, for too long. As if he’d ignored emotion until it rebelled and had to find a target.
And Christine was the one unlucky enough to cross his path. He wanted to hold her and stroke that golden hair, as if stroking it would give him some of her optimistic, sunny attitude. He wanted to learn the feel of her lips on his, experience the gentle caress of her breath against his skin.
He finished doing the dishes and went down the hall to the living room, leaning against the doorframe to watch the girls with Christine and try to find perspective.
His daughters had changed into their pajamas and were sitting patiently as Christine played hairdresser. Even their pajamas matched—pink bunnies with sunglasses on lime-green cotton. Was Evy suppressing their individuality? The wrongness of it was a sour taste in his mouth.
Christine was braiding Grace’s hair and entwining it with his black tie. She looked up and met his gaze with an accepting smile. She seemed so certain there would be no passion in their shared kiss.
Slade was equally certain there would be more passion than he could handle.
“Girls, time for bed. Thank Christine for doing your hair.” Thank Christine for not running screaming out into the night when Daddy showed her his Frankenstein-like scar.
“Thank you,” the twins said, before racing up to bed.
“Lights out in ten minutes.” Slade was envious of their energy. He felt drained. He turned back to Christine. “I’ll see you home.”
“Yep.” She stood. “I’m ready.”
He wasn’t.
She held out her hand. “Come on. I promise not to put my theory to the test until we’re at my house.”
He had a block-and-a-half reprieve. He charged past her, ignoring her hand, ignoring Takata smoking on his porch. You’d think he’d slow down—like a man headed toward the firing squad, determined to do anything to avoid the end. But no, he charged ahead, until he reached her house and looked down to see her panting beside him. His heart was pounding hopefully, his head hoping for rejection.
Slade dragged her against him—without suave moves, without gentleness—and claimed her lips. He swallowed her gasp of surprise and kissed her with a fierceness and intensity that should have scared her away.
She didn’t run for Granny’s house.
And so his hands—the hands that should have stayed on her arms?—wrapped around her, drawing her closer, until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.
This wasn’t a chaste I’ll-see-you-home kiss.
This wasn’t a simple first-date peck on the lips.