His back was to her, and she watched the tight set of his shoulders, wondering what to say now. She’d always been better at writing than talking. And lately she wasn’t doing too well at that, either.
Still with his back to her, he cleared his throat. “Dear Esther,” he said, and she wondered if she’d heard him right.
“Dear Esther,” he said again. “I find myself in rather a strange situation. I’m in a motel room with a woman I’m very attracted to. But we don’t know each other real well. And I know she’s nervous about what I might do. That’s my fault—because I kissed her, which I know I shouldn’t have done. But I was worried about her when someone broke into her house, and when I saw that she was okay, I hugged her. And that turned into a kiss. But now I’d like to convince her that I’m not going to step out of line.” He paused for several heartbeats, then said, “Signed, worried in St. Stephens.”
She stood there, watching his tense stance. He had just revealed a lot to her. Stuff he’d probably found hard to say. But he’d found a way to say it. And now she had to answer him.
She licked her dry lips, then began, “Dear Worried in St. Stephens, uh . . . telling her what you’re thinking makes all the difference. I know it’s difficult to say personal stuff to a woman you don’t know well. But you did it. And that takes away the worry about being alone with you.”
She heard him heave a deep sigh. When he didn’t turn back to face her, she walked to the bed, straightened the covers and took off her shoes. Keeping her sweatpants and tee shirt on, she lay down.
When he started toward the chairs, she said, “You need to sleep. You’re not going to be very comfortable over there.”
He turned to face her, his gaze questioning.
“This bed is pretty wide. I think we can manage.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
She watched him turn off the light, then kick off his shoes. The mattress shifted. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, she slid him a look. He was lying on the far edge of the bed, still wearing the clothing he’d pulled on before rushing to her house.
He looked stiff and uncomfortable. But she wasn’t going to invite him to get undressed. Instead, she focused on trying to get some sleep—which she was sure she would never be able to do because she was too aware of the man lying next to her.
Dear Esther, she thought. Is it possible for a man and a woman who are attracted to each other to share the same bed and not end up making love? Signed, curious in St. Stephens.
Dear curious, she answered her own question. Of course it’s possible for a man and a woman who are attracted to each other to be in close proximity and agree not to engage in hanky-panky.
Hanky-panky. That was a nice old-fashioned term. Still it got her thinking that all she’d have to do was move her arm a little and her hand would brush Zachary’s. That brought a wave of heat sweeping over her body, and she knew she was in trouble.
She’d told him to get into bed with her. Now she had to keep her cool. On the other side of the mattress, he shifted uncomfortably, and she wondered if he was having the same problem. When she found herself staring at the front of his chinos to try and see if he had an erection, she clamped her teeth together, wondering what she had been thinking when she’d invited him to bed.
She’d sentenced herself to lying here for the rest of the night, hot and needy and wondering if she was the only one suffering. But some time during the next hour, she drifted off to sleep. And some time later, a low, choking sound woke her again.