But he knew it was, so to speak, an anniversary present for him.
But all he could think of was pressing his lips to that place just above her heartbeat. Trailing his mouth down, down, down, closing his mouth on her nipple, hearing her gasp. Pressing her body against his.
He couldn’t say a damn thing. He stared, silent and hungry, mute with gratitude and relief, irritable that he should feel all of these things that made him feel as though he had no control at all. Understanding that things might be beyond one’s control didn’t stop him from wanting it.
She looked up at him, and he could have sworn it was like looking in a mirror. Her expression, that was.
And she made a beeline for him. Or, rather, she wove through the crowd, ninjalike in her black dress, and arrived before him, almost momentously.
She deserved a compliment, something gracious, eloquent, subtle.
She deserved to be maneuvered out into the moonlight and kissed like she was precious, made of blown glass.
She deserved a question, crafted in sweetness and subtlety, that would bookend the first part of this courtship.
What emerged from his mouth was: “What’s the best sex you ever had?”
What happened was her jaw dropped.
She stared at him in pure astonishment.
And then she yanked her phone from her purse and stared at it.
“Something’s come up, Gabe. I gotta run.”
She spun around and made a break for it just as fast as she’d arrived.
The next day...
Gabe grasped the sides of his skull gingerly. His brain was pulsing in there like a subwoofer. How muchdidhe actually drink last night? It was a bad sign that he couldn’t remember. Cheap wine plus good beer plus... did he actually stay and do a shot after Eden took off like a... shot?
It was the first time he’d ever gone to school with a hangover, and he felt like a real sleaze. Even though he could cope, hands down. It wasn’t going to happen again.
That’s what enigmatic women would do to you.
Mrs. Maker peered in. “Mr. Caldera, I’m about to go pick up lunch. What can I get for you?”
“Oh, anything, Donna,” he said. “As long as it’s tuna on rye.”
Tuna was his preferred hangover food. Which seemed counterintuitive. Maybe it was a sort of punishment for overindulging.
She beamed. “I know just the thing! Oh, here’s Ms. Harwood. Thank you for the flowers, Eden, dear. They’re so lovely. I think he may have a minute or two before his next meeting, so don’t keep him long. I’ll be right back.”
And there she was in his doorway. Wearing jeans and a slim-fitting pale green ribbed turtleneck.
“Eden,” he said. Stunned.
“Annelise forgot her lunch—again—so I brought it to her. And I thought I’d bring this in here.”
She came around to his side of the desk to slide something in front of him.
“Here’s the sign-up sheet for the dunking booth. Annelise thinks we’ll make the most money when you’re sitting up there, so we’re hoping you’ll take this shift.”
She leaned over to point at something, and when she did a long strand of hair she’d tucked behind her ear swung down and brushed against his jaw. It smelled like coconut and flowers. It was like a magic wand—it banished his hangover and filled his brain with what felt like helium and his blood with what felt like lava.
He was a man in quiet torment.
He stared down at it and said nothing.