Christmas In Whitehorn

“I don’t usually…that is I’ve never—” She pressed her lips together and wished she could simply fade into the fabric of the sofa.

He crouched in front of her and brushed the hair from her eyes. “I know. This isn’t your style. Mine either. I guess we were both caught up in the moment.” One corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. “Must have been all the tofu in the potatoes.”

“Must have been.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “Are you okay?”

No!

She held in the word. “I’m not upset, well, not that much. It’s just, I don’t know. Too weird, I guess. I barely know you. We’re not even dating.” She swallowed and wanted to die. “Not that I’m hinting we should date, it’s just…”

She looked away, hating what he must think of her. That she was cheap and easy. She wasn’t—she’d never been that way. If she tried to explain about her life, he might start to ask questions and what was she supposed to say about Dirk? Talking about her brother was hardly post-lovemaking material.

He stood, then bent over and grabbed her clothes. Darcy took them gratefully. She pulled on her panties, then rose and quickly pulled on her slacks. There was a really awkward moment when she had to hand him back his shirt, then slip on her bra and sweater all while trying to keep from thinking about him watching her. Which was crazy. The man had just touched about every significant body part she owned. Modesty was coming a little late to help.

When she was dressed, she forced herself to look at him. He stood with his hands shoved into his slacks pockets. Tension filled his body—a body that she had touched, that had entered hers. The memory of what they’d done to each other made her study the carpet again.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.

“Do you want me to apologize?”

She stared at him and wished she knew what he was thinking. “Are you sorry?”

“No.”

“Then don’t apologize.”

“Fair enough.” He shifted his weight. “I’m guessing it’s probably time for me to go.”

She winced. “Of course.” She headed for the door.

He followed her, then surprised her by bending down and kissing her cheek. “Thank you. That was an amazing experience.”

“Um, yes well, for me, too.” Despite her embarrassment and lingering horror at her impulsiveness, she couldn’t complain about the physical aspects of their lovemaking. Mark had been amazing.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“Don’t say that.” She forced herself to smile at him. “It’s kind of a button for me. You don’t have to call.”

“What if I want to?”

“Then just do it, but don’t tell me you’re going to. If you do, I’ll obsess about it and when you don’t call, I’ll try to figure out what I did wrong. Two weeks later I’ll finally remember that it’s not my problem, it’s yours. But I don’t need the emotional down time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said earnestly. “You’re an incredibly attractive, sexy woman.”

“As true as that may be, your gender can be stupid. So don’t tell me you’re going to call. Okay?”

“Deal.”

He stared at her. She gazed into his green eyes, trying to memorize everything about him. Because she didn’t have a doubt in her mind that except for incredibly stilted conversations at the diner, she wasn’t going to see him again.

“Bye, Darcy. Thanks for the dinner.”

She opened the door and he stepped into the night. She gave a quick wave as he hurried toward his own apartment. She got the door closed and was halfway to the kitchen when reality slammed into her with all the subtlety of a runaway dish tray hitting the floor.

She and Mark had just had sex. Unprotected sex.

Darcy leaned against the dining room wall. No. That couldn’t have happened. She wasn’t that stupid, was she? After five years of trying to get it right, she couldn’t possibly have blown it. And for what? Thirty minutes of hot, wild, incredible sex? If she had a craving, couldn’t she just stick to chocolate?

Still calling herself fifteen different kinds of moron, she crossed to the calendar and counted days. Okay, the pregnancy issue didn’t seem to be a problem, but there were other considerations. For one thing, where exactly had Mark Kincaid been putting his handsome self? For another, even if her body got through this unscathed, what about her emotional well-being? One-night stands went against everything she believed in. She prided herself on being a thoughtful, intelligent, organized woman who made informed choices. She hadn’t gotten through all the hell of the past few years by jumping into bed with every pretty face who asked.

Why had she allowed a juvenile crush on her good-looking neighbor to overwhelm her good sense? And what was she supposed to say to him the next time she saw him?

Darcy turned off the alarm two minutes before it was scheduled to go off. She stared at the time. Four fifty-eight. She figured she’d gotten maybe two hours of sleep the whole night. Worry and self-recrimination had kept her awake most of the time. When she had finally dozed off, she’d found herself dreaming about her close encounter with her sexy neighbor. The sensation of him kissing his way up her thighs had been enough to jerk her into consciousness.

Her eyes burned, her eyelids felt swollen and even her hair hurt. She groaned as she forced herself into a sitting position. It was going to be a long day.

Cold water on her face and a vigorous teethbrushing didn’t make her feel any better. Normally she waited until she was at the Hip Hop to have coffee, but this morning she needed an emergency infusion. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would jump-start her body. She pulled on her ratty terry-cloth robe and stumbled into the kitchen.

After flipping on lights and hunting up the coffeemaker, she dug out a filter and coffee, then set about making magic. She’d just turned on the machine when there was a soft tap at her back door.

Darcy froze. She knew she hadn’t imagined the sound. She also had a really good idea of who would come calling at five in the morning, although she couldn’t figure out why. Then she pictured herself—her hair sticking out at odd angles, her skin pale as chalk, her shabby blue robe that would have disappeared instantly into the throw-out pile should she ever try to give it to charity.

Perfect. This was so exactly how she wanted to start her day.

Trying—and failing—to find humor in the situation, she walked to the back door and cautiously peeked outside. Sure enough Detective Mark Kincaid stood there, his handsome self dressed in sweats that should have looked horrible but instead made her mouth water. She opened the door.

“Did you have an appointment?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He smiled. Instantly her heart jumped into her throat and her ability to form whole sentences dove for her toes. It was not a pleasant sensation.

“I’ve been watching your house, waiting for you to wake up,” he said, sliding past her and entering the kitchen. “I figured you’d have to get up early.”

She closed the door and pulled her robe more tightly around herself. “Okay. I’m up and you’re here. Why?”

Instead of answering, he pulled her against him. She had absolutely no warning and no way to stop his mouth from settling against hers. She told herself to protest, or at the very least, not to melt. Her body didn’t listen. Instead of pushing him away, her arms wrapped around him and held on as tightly as his. Instead of yelling out a complaint, her mouth simply softened, then parted to admit him. She went from numb to alive in .8 seconds. He was better than a double latte.