Page 55 of Rebel Bride
The kiss deepened, and I felt myself sinking to a place from which I might not return. Anxious, I pulled back. “This hasn’t suddenly become a good idea, has it?”
He shook his head. “It gets worse with each passing second.”
“We should stop.”
“Agreed.”
We did not stop.
The kiss went on, deep and sinful one moment, soft and playful the next. His cock felt hard against my hip, his palm hot on my lower back. His fingers teased beneath the waistband of the shorts, but never further.
I wanted further.
But I also knew that as soon as we crossed that line, any chance I had of recovering some semblance of my life would disappear. As it was, I would have to leave here soon. It was far too dangerous for all sorts of reasons.
I drew back. His lips were puffy from my kiss, his eyes glazed, dark, and smoky. No man had ever looked more beautiful in his abandon.
“We can’t, Hatch.”
“I know, Sunshine.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “I know.”
Chapter Eighteen
Summer
* * *
For the next few days, we stayed in our respective corners—he in the pool house, me in the main like the lady of the manor. I did research, worked on scouting reports, and kept an eye out for my name on the gossip websites. There were a couple of mentions but nothing particularly scurrilous. A few distant photos taken by the paps of Dash in St. Bart’s showed up online, but the family wasn’t commenting right now.
In the mornings, before the sun started to beat down, Hatch and I biked on the rural back roads and along the lakefront. In the evenings, he grilled on the patio. My appetite had returned with a vengeance. I ate like a starving woman—steak, shrimp, the best Mediterranean-marinated chicken I’d ever tasted. And cheese. So much cheese.
After dinner we’d sit in the wicker chairs out back and watch the sun set in a watercolor-striped sky. Sometimes we’d dip into TV shows, usually Taskmaster and Downton Abbey, comfort watches for me. Hatch was new to Downton and I enjoyed explaining to him the foibles of the British upper classes at the turn of the last century. (His comment that Mary was the worst was spot on. Mary was the worst and Edith was done dirty at every turn. Writers, just let her be happy!) My villain origin story was the untimely death of Matthew Crawley, and I loved sharing that with someone.
One night, just over a week from my doomed wedding day, we were relaxing on the patio after scarfing down a particularly excellent charcuterie board. There was a stillness in the air that made me sad, like summer was ending though it had barely started.
I took a breath. “I can’t hide out here forever. It’s not fair.”
“To me?”
“Especially you. I don’t want to interfere with the team brotherhood. The longer I stay here the more likely it is that someone will recognize me. Or maybe I’m assigning myself too much importance in the Rebels universe.”
He stretched out his long legs, and I averted my greedy gaze. That was another side effect of my recently returned appetite. It came with a ramped-up libido. I wanted to attack Hatch Kershaw like he was a hunk of mature cheddar.
“Definitely. No one would even think for a second that erotic romance novelist Shelby Mae is the former fiancée of Rebels superstar Dash Carter the Third.”
“Can you believe there were three people called Dash?”
“It’s pretty incredible.” His phone rang; he checked and silenced it.
“Who’s that?”
“My agent.”
“I can step inside if you want to talk to her.”
He shook his head. “It can wait. She’s shopping me to other teams.”
I sat up straight in the chair. “You’re leaving the Rebels? But you only just got here.”
