Page 48 of Tempting Mr. Knightly

“This is a serious mistake,” she said.

“The worst kind.”

She kissed him.

She rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his with the certainty of someone who had considered every reason not to and decided, with full possession of the facts, that she was doing it anyway.

His hands came up and framed her face, his thumbs resting along her jaw. She grabbed his tie again, the third time, their thing, except this time she didn’t yank him down or let go. She held on, pulled him closer by degrees, the silk taut between her fingers, and the kiss deepened.

Her back met the counter. His hand curved around her waist and drew her in. The kiss tasted like elderflower and sugar.

When they broke apart, her forehead was against his. Her hands still held his tie. His palms were flat against the counter on either side of her, bracketing her without caging.

“So,” she said. Her voice was rough. “Serious mistake.”

“Serious,” he said.

She kissed him again, harder. Her fingers tightened on his tie and his hand moved from the counter to her hip.

When they finally separated, she realized the water was still running. She reached behind her and turned it off. Her hand was steady. Her eyes were not.

“We should talk about this,” she said.

“We should.”

“I’m not going to.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“Good.” She released his tie and smoothed the silk with slow strokes that contradicted the tremor in her hands. “Go home, Knox.”

“Lucy.”

“And if this is going to move forward—” The word cost her something; he watched her spend it anyway. “You don’t get to be the man who fixed my budget. You meet my parents.”

“I’m good with parents,” Knox said. “I once won over a hostile board chair by reciting his own bylaws until he agreed with me.”

“My mother doesn’t keep bylaws. She keeps a cleaver and a long memory.”

He should have been calculating exits. Instead he heard himself say, “When?”

“Monday. It’s the one night my father doesn’t work, and my mother will have decided she’s feeding you before I’m even home.” She picked up the piping bag and turned toward the sink, her back straight, her shoulders set, reassembling herself. “Bring the budget. And don’t be weird.”

Knox collected his binder, straightened his tie, checked his cuffs. His hands smelled like frosting. His mouth tasted like elderflower. The thing in his chest that he’d spent a lifetime walling off had cracked open, and he couldn’t close it and didn’t want to.

He paused at the door.

“Lucy?”

She didn’t turn around. “What?”

“Serious. Your word, not mine.”

He heard her quick inhale. He pushed through the door. The bell chimed. The sidewalk caught him, and the evening air was cool and ordinary and entirely insufficient for the size of what had happened.

He walked six blocks before he realized he was grinning.

He couldn’t stop.