Page 10 of Tattered Edges

For a long moment, he said nothing at all, just stared at me in such a way I thought maybe, just maybe, he was as intrigued by me as I was by him. If anyone could clear my head for the night, ensuring a deep, recovery sleep, it was the redhead with the British-Irish accent and the carefully, deliberate touch.

Finally, he leaned a little closer and said, “Drinks are on the house. I hope you enjoy your trip.”

My drinks were on the house.

While I could have left well enough alone—rather than his rejection, I heard what hehadn’tsaid.

And he hadn’t said no. Not exactly.

Neither had he moved away from me.

I wasn’tlooseor easy—I was merely confident.

Or, sometimes, drunk enough to be outrageously brave.

That night, it was the latter.

Intent on taking one last shot, I lifted myself out of my seat, closed what distance remained between us, and pressed my lips to his.

It was brazen.

It was reckless.

It wasnotunwelcome.

When he didn’t pull away, I parted my lips and pressed in closer. He tilted his head, as if to procure the perfect angle, then opened his mouth and snuck a taste. The feel of his warm tongue—slight though it was—was undeniably titillating.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

He severed our connection, pulling away only enough for me to make out the expression in his eyes. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he might have been tempted.

He was still close enough that I felt his breath against my lips when he muttered, “Bingo.”

The giggle that bubbled out of me was on account of the gin, but I received his message loud and clear.

“Thanks for the drinks, Red,” I murmured.

I’d taken my shot. Now, it was time to go home.

I stepped down from my chair, slid into my jacket, offered him a wave, and made my way toward the stairs.

He hadn’t said no. Not exactly.

Maybe next time he’d sayyes.

Rory

Rorywokethenextmorning before his alarm clock sounded, and she was the first thing to cross his mind.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the American woman. She’d been forward, to say the least, and confident in a way that bordered on arrogance.

She’d also been alluring and undeniably beautiful.

He remembered her shoulder-length, straight, blonde hair. Her full, sweetheart lips. Her cute, button nose. Her slender neck, and the jumper that seemed to swallow her whole. He remembered what it felt like to have her mouth pressed against his, and the salty-gin taste of their kiss.

More than anything, he remembered her pale gray eyes. They’d been aimed in his direction often enough.

Rather than off-putting, her stare had been inviting.

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