“Okay, fine. Let’s cut to the chase. Tell me this, Lilah, was there any kissing going on last night while you were”—she rolled her hand in the air—“making yourself feel better?”
“I kissed him,” she admitted and shifted positions to alleviate the feeling of pressure.
“You overpowered big, bad Special Forces Ford, kissed him against his will, and he just sat there and took it?”
“Of course not. I didn’t overpower him. I took him by surprise. He was stunned, I’m sure.”
“Did he kiss you back?” Izzy asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” The scrupulously honest part of her couldn’t let it rest. “Yes.” The clenched sensation in her stomach eased as soon as the admission left her lips.
Bridget slapped her hands on her thighs as if to say, I rest my case.
“I have to side with Bridget on this,” Izzy said. “Ford didn’t sit there kissing you and, uh, giving you the benefit of his fine male attributes because he was too shocked or polite to put a stop to it. That’s not who he is. He participated. And he did it because he wanted to. He was into it. Into you.”
“If he was so into it, why was the first thing he said to me afterward, ‘I’m sorry’? Then he bolted out of there so quickly he left a Ford-shaped hole in the air.”
Bridget winced, then shook her head and whispered, “Ford, Ford, Ford.”
Izzy, too, shook her head, then spoke her mind. “Because he’s trying not to take advantage of you.”
Lilah flopped against the back of the sofa. “I’m the one who took advantage. Worse, I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Who says you have to do the fixing?” Bridget demanded. “He’s got some fixing to do, too.”
“He said he was sorry.”
Izzy rolled her eyes. “That’s not a fix.”
“Apparently neither was the thank-you note I left for him this morning when I snuck off before he woke, since he decided to fly to Juneau rather than come into his own place of business and deal with me. I have to do something. Even if I didn’t work for him, I’d have to do something to get us back to normal. It’s a small town. We can’t avoid each other forever. I have to assure the poor man that I’m not going to”—she squeezed her eyes shut against the mortifying truth—“come on him like an animal in heat every time he brushes against me.”
“Oh, please.” Bridget sipped her wine before continuing. “Don’t ‘poor man’ me. Beneath all his shock and sorry”—she made air quotes around the word—“about giving you a through-the-clothes orgasm last night, he’s secretly feeling like a big ole’ stud. Trust me.”