That Runaway Summer

“Whatever it is, just spit it out,” she advised. “That’s usually the best way.”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “First off, let me say I had a really good time tonight.”

They’d reached a residential section of town on a hilly street lined with modest houses, some of which had to be more than one hundred years old. She stopped directly under a street lamp that gave off more light than the crescent moon.

Her short, curly hair framed a face that was compelling rather than beautiful. Her nose turned up at the end, a smattering of freckles dotted her cheeks and nose and her eyes were big for her face. She had a style all her own, with jangling bracelets, oversize jewelry and a funky miniskirt that showed off slim, shapely legs.

“I thought you were going to spit it out,” she reminded him.

“I am.” He gazed into her eyes. They were either green or gray; he couldn’t tell even with the artificial light shining down on them. Hoping he wouldn’t hurt her feelings, he said, “I don’t want to date you.”

She dragged a hand across her forehead and blew out a loud breath. “That’s a relief.”

Whatever reaction he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that one. “It is?”

“Ye-ah.” She drew out the word so it sounded as though it had two syllables. “I thought there for a minute you were going to ask me out. I was trying to figure out how to let you down easy.”

“Hold on.” This did not compute. “You weren’t angling for a date when you said that thing about Penelope’s heart breaking?”

She let loose with a low-throated laugh, and he didn’t know how to feel. “Of course not. Penelope’s a sweetheart. But even though she’s in love with love, I don’t feel responsible for feeding her obsession. Don’t get me wrong—you’re as cute as can be. But I’m not interested in you.”

Cute. He was cute?

“Why not?” he heard himself ask.

She stopped laughing, obviously taken aback by the question. And why shouldn’t she be? He was, too.

“It’s not you,” she said slowly. “It’s me.”

He cringed at her use of the classic breakup cliché when they’d never even been on a date.

“It’s not the right time for me to get involved with anybody,” she said.

She was in her mid to late twenties, the age many women viewed as the perfect time to settle down. She put up a slim, pretty hand and waved it back and forth, her bracelets softly clanging against each other.

“I have a lot of things going on in my life,” she continued. “And let’s face it, it’s not like you find me attractive.”

“I said I didn’t want to date you,” he corrected quickly. “Not that I wasn’t attracted to you.”

Her mouth gaped. “You’re attracted to me?”

She’d twirled a lock of her curly black hair around her index finger. Bracelets jingled from her arm. The light caught the freckles on her nose, making them look more pronounced.

His mouth went dry.

“You’re quite pretty,” he said.

Her smile started slowly, then grew wider, revealing even, white teeth.

“Thank you,” she said. “But the answer will still be no if you ask me out.”

“You’re not curious how we’d be together?” he asked. Now, where had that come from?

“Not particularly,” she said.

“I thought you said I was…” Oh, Lord, he was actually going to repeat the word. “Cute. Who knows? We might have good chemistry.”

She shook her head. “Probably not.”

He reached out and touched her hair, which was as soft and springy as it looked. When she didn’t back away, he moved his hand to her cheek and gently ran his fingers over her smooth, tanned skin. His eyes drifted to her mouth.

“There’s one way to find out.”

Her lips parted. He waited for them to form a no, but all that came out of her mouth was warm, sweet-smelling breath.

He slid his palm to the soft skin of her neck and gently cupped the base of her skull. She leaned into his touch, her chin tipping, her lips tilting upward.

Such full, pretty lips.

She was standing slightly uphill from him, which partially made up for their difference in height. He pressed his mouth gently against hers, breathing in her breath, feeling her lips cling to his. It would have been the sweetest of kisses if not for the instant hardening of his body, which he hoped like hell she didn’t notice.

No pressure, he told himself as he fought not to deepen the kiss, contenting himself with tracing the seam of her mouth with his tongue. No demands, he thought as he worked his way from one edge of her mouth to the other with a series of soft kisses. Just a simple experiment in sexual chemistry. She’d braced her hand on his heart, which felt as if it might combust.

She pulled back first.

“That was nice,” she said, smiling at him pleasantly with her well-kissed lips, “but I still don’t want to go out with you.”

He blinked a few times, trying to clear the sexual fog clogging his head, attempting to get his body under control.

“I live over there.” She indicated a two-story Victorian house that seemed far too large for one person. She headed for it, picking up speed as she went.

“Thanks for walking me home,” she called over her shoulder when she reached the top step of a wraparound porch. Baskets of hanging flowers that were probably a riot of color in the daylight hung from the porch in strategic locations.

“You’re welcome.” His reply was automatic, although a different response rang in his head.

Why the hell didn’t she want to date him?

The thud of the door closing jarred him back to his senses. He moved away from the streetlight, into the relative darkness of the sidewalk where he could rationalize away what had just happened.

He’d reacted strongly to Jill because she was the first woman he’d kissed since Maggie had done a number on his heart almost a year ago.

In all that time, he hadn’t been tempted to date anyone.

He still wasn’t.

So why was he already looking forward to the next time he ran into Jill Jacobi?

CHAPTER TWO