Page 24 of Mischief

I tell myself it's nothing. He looks at every prospect. I'm being paranoid, running on no sleep, a deadline, and guilt.

I tell myself that, and I don't quite believe it.

* * *

She slips out toward the kitchen when the plates are being cleared, and I've got an armful of them heading the same way.

It isn't planned, or maybe it is, maybe some reckless part of me timed it, because I'm past the point of being smart.

The kitchen's empty. Everyone's out at the tables, loud and full on Meghan's cooking.

Only her, running water over a stack of glasses she doesn't need to wash, and me, setting the plates down on the counter, the door swinging shut behind us on all that noise.

"Hey," she says, low, not turning around.

"Hey." I set the plates down soft so the clink doesn't carry.

"You've been carrying platters with two broken ribs all night." She shuts the water off. "I've been watching you not wince for hours now. It's the worst thing I've ever seen."

"I'm fine." I lean my hip against the counter to take the weight off the bad side, which gives the lie away, and she catches it.

"You're not fine. You're the opposite of fine." She turns then, and her eyes go over my face the way they did the night I came home, checking, always checking, and her voice drops even softer. "I hate this. I hate watching you clear my grandfather's plate like you're nobody. You're not nobody. You’ve been partof this club for years, and you should have your damn patch by now."

And that's what breaks me, days of holding it all in, the club closing in, my father's clock running down, and this woman looking at me like I'm the center of the world instead of the help.

I close the space between us before I can talk myself out of it.

I get one hand on her jaw and I kiss her, careful of the lip that's still healing, and she makes a small sound against my mouth.

She grabs a fistful of my shirt and kisses me back like she's been starving for it as long as I have.

Her back hits the counter. My ribs light up and I don't care.

For three seconds, four, there's no club, no father, and no deadline.

Only her mouth, her hands, and the fact that she chose me, out of every man in this life she could've had, she chose the prospect clearing her plate.

Then footsteps in the hall, and we break apart fast, and she spins back to the sink.

I grab a dishtowel and we're two feet apart and busy with nothing by the time the door swings open.

It’s Magnolia, arms filled with glasses, and she barely looks at us.

But my heart's slamming, and Tindra's knuckles are white on the edge of the sink.

We both know how close that was.

"Go," she breathes, when the woman's gone back out. "Before somebody who's actually paying attention walks in."

I go.

I don't see Tor in the hall until I'm almost past him.

He's leaned against the wall near the kitchen door, a beer in his hand, and I don't know how long he's been there.

Here's the whole problem, Idon'tknow how long he's been there.

He's not looking at me.