The Sweetest Hours

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!

“Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

On prospects drear!

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,

I guess an’ fear.”

The table erupted in applause.

“That was my best Sir Sean Connery imitation,” he said lamely.

Kristin beamed at him, a quiet, shared look.

“Will you be back?” her mother asked him. “You’re certainly invited to our home, anytime you’d like.”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m here for just the day.”

“A one-day contract?” Kristin inquired.

He nodded, finding himself unable to speak. A heavy sadness had descended over him. The night had been sweet. The sweetest hours. He was immensely sorry he could never see her again.

* * *

SHE’D KNOWN ALL along that George was leaving.

Kristin put on her snow boots and followed him outside to the porch. A black car was waiting for him, idling at the end of the driveway.

He stood still, staring at the car with his hands in his pockets and his coat open, seemingly unconcerned about the wintry weather that enveloped them.

She sensed sadness coming from him, but it wasn’t her problem, not any of her business. He was off to some other faraway place, the black car on the corner set to whisk him away.

She felt relieved that nothing had happened with George to risk her already shaky standing at Aura. But still, part of her wished she didn’t have to lose his companionship just yet.

He’d been good to her at dinner tonight, standing up for her. He’d even played along, though she knew he hadn’t wanted to—encouraging the others into tasting the haggis and reciting the Burns poem.

She’d seen what he’d done for her, and she’d appreciated him for it. With each secret glance he’d given her during the dinner, each reactive dimple in his cheek toward her, she’d felt herself drawing closer to him.

She blew into her hands, so cold in the dark night. She couldn’t see George’s face clearly in the dim light from the porch bulb, only the outline of his tall, broad form, the flat plane of his sexy, razor-stubbled cheek—a cheek that she could too easily get used to gazing upon.

How could she say goodbye to him? Instead, she fumbled for something to say. Something trivial—anything to prolong the moment.

“I hope that everything went okay today,” she said, “and that you got all you need from us.”

He turned, his expression illuminated, and smiled at her, descending two steps lower than her on the stairs. He was at exactly her height now, his eyes level to hers.

“I did,” he said, staring at her, his gaze not breaking. “Thanks to you, of course.”

Biting her lip, she looked down. “I’m sorry about some of the comments in there.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” His voice was gentle. “I understand families.”

“Yes, you do.” He’d been so good with them, even Lily. She lifted her head, her eyes searching his again.

His hand touched hers, warm from the dinner table inside. His fingers brushed her knuckles, just once. Kristin was glad she hadn’t put on mittens. She liked the feel of his skin against hers.

“Kristin,” he said in a low voice.

She waited, barely daring to breathe, his wool coat rough against her knuckles. She inhaled his unique smell, mixed with the earthiness of the whisky he’d consumed. Involuntarily, she shivered.

He opened his coat, enveloping her in his warmth. It was a tender, protective response. A stolen moment in an evening that was turning out to be magical.

Maybe she was a sheltered person...she supposed so. She’d only been away from Vermont for a short time, until life in the city had crushed and overwhelmed her. She’d been back home for years now, in this small town she knew and trusted, with people who—though they may sometimes tease or criticize her—on the whole loved her and cared for her, no matter what.

Yes, they gave her trouble. Yes, she longed to break free. But in the end, she needed this safety. And by his actions tonight, it was clear to her that George understood that.

She stepped closer to him, inside the shield of his heavy woolen coat. Tentatively she touched the solid wall of his broad chest, feeling his cotton shirt and the silk of his necktie beneath her fingertips.

“Is it bad that I don’t want this day to end?” she whispered.

“No, lass.” His voice was throaty. The gruff...Scottishness of it seeped into her, as if spilled from one of Laura’s potion bottles. “I won’t forget you, Kristin.”

His eyes held hers. And as she swallowed, he angled his head and leaned toward her.

And then he kissed her.

At the first brush of his lips on hers, the heated whisper of his breath against her cheek, she sighed and tilted her head back, wanting to feel all of it—everything about him—so she could remember him.

He was tender, his lips molded gently over hers, moving with sweetness, as if to remember her fully, too.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she made a little moan.

He gave her the joy of a long, passionate kiss. Mouth to mouth, honest and solid, because that’s who George was. He was just so damn sexy.

The car at the end of the drive flashed its lights at them. Once. Twice.

George cursed softly. He straightened and drew back. The warmth of his coat dropped away from Kristin.

“I will put in a good word for you at Aura.” Back to formality, his tone sounded tortured. “You can count on that.”