Page 50 of Taking A Chance

“Were you jealous of Natasha?” I counter, deflecting, knowing full well she was.

“Please,” she says. “Jealous? More like annoyed.” Her eyes narrow but her smirk doesn’t dissipate.

“Well, same for me. I was just annoyed.” I shrug, returning a grin.

Cora presses her lips together, knowing full well we’re at an impasse. We were both jealous, and now we both refuse to admit it. But neither of us are idiots either. We’re just playing the game.

I help her out of the car after we pull up to our building, the night air a bit chillier than when our evening began. It almost makes me wish I’d opted for a jacket, but a few strides later we’re tucked inside and already making our way up the stairs. I haven’t exactly figured out what’s about to happen. I mean, I know what Iwantto happen. But what I want and what happens in reality are rarely in line with each other.

Cora’s steps slow in front of me as she rounds the corner, approaching her door. She turns and I notice her hands fidgeting on the clasp of her clutch.

“I had a really great time,” she says. “Even if we were both a little annoyed by other people.” The look on her face when she says this lets me know all I need to in that regard.

I smile down at her, my hands instinctively reaching for just above her hips. Pulling her to me, we both inhale a deep breath as we embrace, her arms coming up around my neck. It’s now or never. Well, maybe notnever, but it sure feels that way.

“Would you like to come over?” I ask, pulling back from the hug. I find it ironic this is where we are. Over the years, I’ve slipped this question in a couple of times for an entirely different reason than I’m asking now. Asking this question prior had set years of distance and hate into motion. Now, here I am, asking it for the exact reason she assumed I did before.

“Yes,” she whispers.

29

Cora

The keysin Declan’s hand make a dainty jingling sound as he unlocks his door and then pushes it open for me. Upon stepping inside, it feels both familiar and, strangely, like I’m here for the first time. Perhaps the circumstances cause it to feel different. Or the ball of nerves in the pit of my stomach. I can’t be sure.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, closing and locking the door behind him. The click of the lock echoes into the otherwise quiet room, jarring my senses.

“Sure,” I say, my voice suddenly less steady.

He takes long strides across the open space between the living room and his kitchen, pulling at his tie as he opens a cabinet for two glasses. He deposits his tie on the counter as he pops the cork from a bottle, then pours red wine into the delicate stemless glassware. I’m oddly fascinated with his movements, studying the discarded tie longer than necessary.It’s just a bit of black fabric.Perhaps this is my mind’s way of calming itself down.

“Here you go,” he says, placing the glass of wine in my hand.Good. I’ll need this.Liquid courage, right?

“Thank you,” I say. I turn to find his easel empty, the various canvases previously against the wall now all covered in white sheets. “Are you redecorating?” I tease.

“Something like that.” He laughs. He motions to the couch and we sit, our legs crossed toward each other. In the words of Cher Horowitz, that’s anunequivocal sex invite.

Declan takes a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine. I watch the glass tip back, then his lips part, the dark red liquid wetting them. His outstretched arm over the back of the couch aligns his hand with my shoulder, his index finger drawing circles there on my skin. Between the wet lips and gentle caresses, I’m more than a little distracted.

“I didn’t mind it, you know,” I say gently, taking another sip of my wine. “When you said you were my boyfriend.”

“No?” he says. “I assumed it was a little too soon for those kinds of labels.”

“Maybe so,” I muse.

“Then again, I’ve never been one for labels or an imaginary timeline.”

“Neither have I,” I whisper, my breath shallow.

Declan takes my glass along with his and places them on the table in front of us. Then, he inches closer to me, his legs touching mine. “Cora,” he says, his voice low and gritty.

“Yes?” My voice is barely above a whisper, my nerves making me jittery.

He runs his thumb across my lower lip, his fingers pressing against my jawline. “I don’t want to ask to kiss you. I’d just like to kiss you. Anytime I want.” His words come out with a raw tenderness I didn’t expect. But they’re also lined in firmness, edging on a hunger that makes my lower stomach flutter.

This man is stone. This man is fire.

“Yes.” My answer is simple, breathy, begging in nature.

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