Page 47 of Rebel Bride
We had always worked using my personal email because Scott worried Ryder would think I was being poached by another department. Sensitive office politicking. Once I ended the call, I felt a little bit better.
Then I remembered my run-in with Hatch. Today’s run-in, not the kiss from last night. I would not be devoting any more brain space to that.
I threw the University of Michigan tee over Adeline’s bikini—I suspected Hatch was annoyed with my skin-revealing outfit—and headed outdoors. He was stretched out on a lounger wearing board shorts and nothing else.
My mouth went dry. Then it watered. Then dry again.
Talk about skin revealing. That body was fact and proof of deities who worshipped the male form. All the Kershaws were beautiful, but Hatch was in a class of his own. Scimitar cheekbones, a perfectly chiseled jaw, those jewel-green eyes. Okay, so I was focusing on the face because dwelling on his body might make my hormones bubble to a boiling point.
I chanced a dip south. He had chest hair. I hadn’t expected it, and seeing that smattering of hair, the goodie trail, the flatpack abs, had every part of my body doing a celebratory samba.
He pushed his sunglasses onto his head, gave a Class A glower, and barked, “What?”
“Were you able to fix the bike?”
“No. The tube is shredded. I’ll have to get a new one in town.”
It hadn’t looked that bad before, but what did I know. “I’ll get an Uber later. Bring it into the bike shop myself.”
“Do you need to be in town today? More underwear to buy? Mayhem to cause?”
“No—”
“Then I’ll take care of the bike later.”
I figured it wasn’t a hill worth dying on, not when there were a million other peaks to climb.
“I just talked to Adeline and Rosie.”
“Did you tell them where you were?”
I shook my head. “I thought it best to keep that to myself.” I took his silence for agreement. “Could we talk about what happened before?”
He sat up on the lounger and swung his long, strong legs so his feet touched the ground. I took it as an invitation to sit beside him. My thigh brushed his, and the heat of him wafted into my airspace. Damn, call Air Traffic Control at once.
“I should apologize,” he started, surprising the hell out of me.
“Oh, no. That’s on me. I shouldn’t have blindsided you last night. Yet another example of my poor decision making.”
“You had good intentions.” He raised an eyebrow. “I think.”
“I did. But the execution wasn’t the best.” I took a chance. “Unless it was?”
“Unless it was what?”
In for a penny … “Unless it was the best kiss of your life. Which I find hard to believe because …” I trailed off. Why did I find it hard to believe?
It was the best kiss of mine.
“Because …”
Oh, he was going to call my bluff. “I guess I would have thought you’d have had tons of great kisses. Great kissers tend to produce similar results in the kissees.”
“The kissees? We’re making up words now?”
“Sure, why not? And don’t change the subject.”
“Your reasoning is that I couldn’t have possibly thought last night’s kiss was the best kiss of my life because I’m such a great kisser and I would have already achieved those lofty heights?” When I merely smirked my agreement, he went on. “You don’t think a great kisser could always be striving to kiss better, to improve the kiss experience, to aspire to the best kiss ever?”
