Page 32 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I spray her again, getting the edge of her dress this time before she hops out of my aim. The faulty nozzle streaks the metal island in the middle of the kitchen with water this time, but I don’t care. All the tension is leaving my body, replaced by the same determined surge of adrenaline I feel every time I’m on a competition stage. A laugh bubbles out of me as the corners of my mouth lift.

Now Moira is the one shrieking, but her squeals are edged with laughter too. She darts close enough to snatch the whole brownie tray and then retreats to the other side of the kitchen, dodging a squirt from the hose that ends up soaking a stack of tea towels instead.

“Kenzie, we can talk about this,” she pants, even as she grabs another handful of ammo off the platter. Her gaze darts around my body, anticipating any sign of movement.

“Oh, we passed the talking point as soon as you threw my own brownies at me.”

She’s too far for me to spray her again, and I’m too far for her to hit with a projectile. We stay locked in a standstill, both of us breathing hard.

“Put the hose down, Kenzie.”

“When you put the tray down, Moira.”

I tense when I see her eyes flick to the island in front of her. In a flash of movement, she grabs an empty baking tray to hold up as a shield and darts around the island with a fistful of brownies in hand.

I stand with the nozzle ready as she charges toward me, and in the second she takes to lower her tray and check her aim, I go in for my shot.

She ends up with a face full of tap water, and I end up with a face full of smushed brownies.

We’re both left gasping and spluttering, swiping at our eyes before we look at each other.

She’s closer than I realized.

So damn close.

Her eyelashes are beaded with water, and all the breath whooshes out of me as I realize just how bad I want to lick the drops of moisture clinging to her lips.

I want to find out what she tastes like, what she feels like under my hands. I want to know just how crazy we could drive each other if we made our bodies part of the game we’ve been playing for years.

Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, the flash of pink on pink drawing me closer.

I want to know what she’d sound like if I bit that lip. I don’t know how I know, but I’m suddenly certain Moira Murray likes it a little rough.

Her chest is heaving, and mine is too, the cups of my bra straining against my now completely transparent shirt.

I want to feel her hands on the buttons, pulling it off me.

I want my hands in her hair, pulling hard.

Our faces are only a few inches apart now. I can almost taste her hot, rapid breaths.

“Kenzie...”

Her voice whispering my name makes my eyes drop closed as my hands clench at the thought of all the different ways I could make her say it.

Sigh it.

Scream it.

“Moira...”

There’s nothing else. There’s just her body, inches from mine, waiting for me to reach for her.

Then the kitchen door swings open, creaking on its hinges, and the rest of the world comes back into harsh and horrifying clarity.

My eyes fly open, and my head whips around to catch sight of sweet old Margerie scanning the war zone of the kitchen like she’s just walked in on the dawning of the apocalypse. She mouths a few silent words as her head swivels to take in all the brownie splatters and water spills sitting like tidal pools on the counters, giving Moira and I a few seconds to jump away from each other.

Finally, her eyes land on the two of us.

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