Page 9 of Lost in the Moonlight

For some strange reason, the pure grumpiness of his tone made my lips tilt upward. Even growling, his voice was dark and smooth, like melted ganache. A temptation I should step away from, just as I would the temptation to lick frosting from a spoon. The unexpected strength of the desire to do just that—to taste him like an intoxicating sample—had my feet rooting to the ground.

When I didn’t respond to his offer of tea, his jaw clenched, and he spun around, heading for the door. As his heat dissipated, leaving the cold to latch on to me again, the lock on my limbs broke. I followed him on legs unsteady not only from what had happened in the graveyard but from him. Shaky because of the strength of the purewantcurling through me. An unexpected and enticing experience that had me thinking of all the beautiful possibilities rather than fear of the last few minutes.

It was the music that hit me first as I stepped inside his house. Slow, sultry, and almost dangerous, it seemed to come from every corner. While it matched the mood of the situation we’d just escaped, it didn’t quite fit the cheery yellow kitchen I instantly envied. It had top-of-the-line, professional appliances and an oversized, granite island so big I could lie on it and still have room. The glass-fronted, upper cabinets were lit, shining on brightly colored dishes as if they were flowers blooming amongst the vines painted along the roof line. The green of the leaves was echoed in lower cabinets, making it feel as if I’d walked into a sun-filled meadow at the height of spring.

“This is…” I shook my head. “Wow. It’s incredible.”

My neighbor frowned at me, and it crinkled the space between his brows in a way that made me want to brush the lines away as I did with Hector. I was so desperate to see a smile curve over his face that I had to stuff my hands into my pockets to make sure I didn’t actually touch him.

He pushed a button on an electric kettle before grabbing two mugs from a cabinet above it.

“Mint? Chamomile?” he asked, waving toward a small apothecary chest on the counter that had a dozen drawers all labeled in gold paint.

I stepped closer, drawn to him as much as the antique. I examined the labels before turning my eyes to him in surprise. “That’s a lot of tea.”

“I’m up at night a lot. Tea relaxes me.” His eyes narrowed after the grunted admission, as if I’d somehow tortured a secret out of him, and I bit my lip, holding back a giggle at his grouchiness.

“The Sweet Nothing is a Tea Spot special. I must recognize you from there,” I said more to myself than him before pointing to the lemon verbena drawer.

He didn’t respond, the frown between his brows just continuing to grow, and yet I felt certain the scowl didn’t fit him any more than the shadows clinging to him. For some reason, in my mind, I kept seeing him laughing, happiness wrinkling his face rather than a glower.

“Do you go to the café a lot?” I asked, beaming at him again, hoping my ease would rub off. He stared at my lips for several seconds before that intense gaze of his flicked up to my eyes. The look there hit like a dart somewhere deep in my chest. An echo of my own emotions. Longing. Desire. The complete opposite of the disgust and fear I’d felt in the graveyard.

Instead of answering me, my neighbor asked, “What were you doing in the cemetery at this time of night?”

The way he said it sounded like an accusation, as if I’d asked for Poco’s attention and his hands on me. The momentary enjoyment I’d managed to capture slipped away.

“Definitely not encouraging Poco!” I tossed back, barely repressing a shudder as I remembered Poco’s strong grip on my arm and the leer in his eyes. My stomach churned nastily until I reminded myself that he was gone, I was safe, and the moment was behind me. I didn’t need to dwell on it. No need to obsess. No need to retreat to the panic that had kept me locked in the cottage that first year.

Moving forward was always the right answer. Leaving the bad behind. Concentrating on the good. Mom. My baking. My pleasant life.

I needed to leave, get to the café, and start the scones.

Even as I stepped away, attempting to break the wave of strong emotions winding around us, I felt called to do the opposite. To get closer instead of farther away. It was as if those dark minutes in the cemetery had somehow bonded us.

Maybe it had simply been a counterreaction to the fear I’d felt as Poco had tried to drag me away, but when this man had rescued me, when his hand had drawn me close, I’d felt safe. More than that, I’d felt special. As if I was dear to him. As if my well-being was important.

Which was utterly ridiculous. It would be better to leave now with relief and attraction still sizzling in the air rather than stay and do something completely embarrassing. Better to leave before his wariness and irritation squashed this experience of dancing with heady desire and left only a bad taste that couldn’t be rinsed away.

I whirled around, moving toward the door, only to have my feet stall and my heart leap as he called out, “Don’t go.” When I looked back at him, his eyes were hooded as he added, “You don’t know if he’s waiting. Have a cup of tea, and give it a few minutes.”

The way his tone and his words kept warring with each other was confusing. One second, he was all kindness and sweet pleas, and the next, anger and annoyance filled the air. It was almost as if he thought I’d purposely arranged to thwart his quiet night, and for the first time since he’d rescued me, I felt irritated too. My shoulders went back, and my chin came up. I wasn’t going to let him make me feel bad just because Poco was an ass. I hadn’t done anything wrong. And I hadn’t asked for him to step in, even though I was grateful he had.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your night,” I snapped. “I’m sorry you felt the need to interfere, but I certainly didn’t ask—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” He ran a finger over his brow, let out a deep breath, and continued, “My attitude has nothing to do with you or what happened. You said no. He didn’t listen. That’s all on him.”

Our eyes locked again, pulsing with not only attraction but the heaviness of the night’s events.

When I didn’t respond, he grunted out, “Stay.”

My body reacted to that single-syllabled command. It caused all sorts of delicious tingles to zing through me, whispering about things I’d wanted and never had. My fingers found the necklace buried underneath my jacket. I tugged at it, closing my palm around the ring for several seconds.

When I still hesitated, he added, “Please.”

That quiet plea ate away any lingering hesitation because it sounded as tortured as the admission he’d given me about hislack of sleep. It made me curious. Thrust me right back to those feelings of wanting to soothe and calm.

When I didn’t make any further attempt to leave, he turned away to spoon loose-leaf tea into two strainers and drape them over the edges of the mugs in a practiced move. After, he stepped toward me, stuck out a hand, and with wary eyes said, “I’m Lincoln.”

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