"Damn."
Jean-Luc Picard was not one to pace. He was also not one to be thrown off-stride by members of the opposite sex. Yet, here he was, wearing down the tread on his boots and obsessing about a woman like a pubescent school-boy.
"Damn!" What the hell was she thinking?
He leaned against his desk, glanced at Livingston—but the lionfish failed to offer an opinion—and ran through the events of the evening for the trillionth time.
"Lovely as always, Jean-Luc." Beverly had smiled; her voice husky from wine and several hours of companionable conversation. "Thank you."
He walked her from the couch to his doors, savouring the last moments of her presence. "The pleasure is all mine."
She stopped just out of the sensor's range and turned to face him. He smiled, expecting a farewell followed by a platonic kiss to the cheek. The pressure of her lips against his jaw, her scent filling his nostrils, and the feather-light caress of her hand on his chest defined the perfect ending to the evening. Well, another option came to mind, but he shoved it aside.
"I have an early shift tomorrow. I'm afraid I won't make breakfast. Unless," she grinned wickedly, "0430 works for you?"
He chuckled, relishing her closeness. "I don't think so."
Beverly shrugged. "It's probably for the best. I don't think any amount of coffee could make me an agreeable companion at that hour."
"Indeed."
"Jean-Luc!" Beverly pulled back, laughter and mock-outrage playing across her features.
She twisted toward the doors and he held his breath. He needn't have worried; she turned as though having forgotten something, leaned in, and kissed him tenderly on the lips.
He froze.
"Goodnight." An impish smile tugged at her lips, and without another word, she'd left.
Jean-Luc flushed, remembering the feel of her mouth against his. The scent of Merlot lingered, and he swore he could still taste her.
"Damn!" he muttered. He was pacing again. What had she meant with that kiss? And more importantly, what was he supposed to do about it?