The Upside to Verbal Incontinence
© 2006, S. Faith
From Mark's point of view
The book launch to-do
Only slightly… askew.
Special appearance by Salman Rushdie and Lord Jeffrey Archer. Because hey, they were in the movie.
And once again, I reject "Geraldine" as Mrs. Darcy's name.
(A slight edit to correct a missed pair of editing mistakes on 10/26/06. My apologies!)
Pressing his thumb and middle finger deeply into the corners of his eyes, Mark Darcy realised that the last thing on earth he wanted to do was go to a book launch party. Why he had ever agreed was a mystery, but he had.
No, that wasn't true. He did know why: fifteen minutes after he had finished a grueling deposition with the Chechens, when Natasha popped her head through his office door, he had been too weak to refuse.
Truth was, he had a more pathetic social life than a cloistered nun, and while Natasha was sharp around the edges and otherwise too overly polished for comfort—very much like his ex-wife—it was a nice change of pace from eating dinner alone far too late after working far too long in his far too lonely Holland Park home.
"Ready?" chirped Natasha, her head rounding the corner into his office one more time, a smile on her face. She had her hair slicked back in a style she favoured but one he frankly thought did not favour her.
"Mm, yes, let me grab my case."
As they walked to where their cars were parked side by side, she volunteered to drive to the launch. Again he agreed and after depositing his attaché case into his own vehicle, he took a seat in the passenger side of Natasha's Jaguar.
"Did you want to grab dinner first?" she asked in a dangerously (and deceptively) innocent tone.
"I'm not particularly hungry." He wondered if he would have to come right out and say: this was not a date.
He caught a flash of impatience and disappointment in her eyes, at odds with the light tone of her response. "Neither am I," she said. "Just thought I'd ask."
The ride to the launch was blessedly short. Natasha was one of those women who liked to talk to hear herself talk, but at least it saved him the trouble of filling the silence himself. When they arrived, she made a move to thread her arm through his, but he luckily chose that moment to divest himself of his mack, and she was thwarted.
The thought of eating dinner at home alone was hugely appealing all of a sudden.
Thankfully, Natasha found a famous author to glom onto almost immediately, and he was able to slip away unnoticed. He made a beeline for the wet bar, because there was no way he was going to make it through the night without the aid of alcohol if he was going to have to spend the entire evening keeping Natasha at arms' length. He found they were serving wine and satay sticks, which he availed himself of, because he had lied through his teeth when he said he wasn't hungry.
As he swallowed the last of the tender meat, his eye was caught by a flash of blonde hair, a shapely female body crossing the room in a shiny black dress. He watched, hoping he could catch a glimpse of her face. When she turned at last, he was surprised to see that he recognised her: Pam and Colin Jones' daughter, Bridget, whom he had met at the appalling yearly New Year's Turkey Curry Buffet last January. Smiling and nodding confidently to her colleagues as she walked, she was radiant and unabashedly feminine, nothing at all like the rail thin, angular Natasha, and a world of difference from when he'd met Bridget at her parents'.
This warranted further investigation.
He dabbed a napkin to his lips, grabbed his glass of red wine, and cut over to hover just outside the periphery of a group Bridget had just joined, including, of all people, Salman Rushdie.
He fought back a smile as she asked this eminent author with as much dignity she could muster if he knew where the loos were. Mark watched as she grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server, swiveling away from Mr Rushdie's group and coming face to face with him; she clearly had a greater expectation of seeing Mickey Mouse at this book launch than she had of seeing Malcolm and Elaine Darcy's son. She could only stare mutely for a few beats, mouth slightly agape.
"What are you doing here?" she asked at last.
"I've been asking myself the same question," he said ruefully. "I came with a colleague." Mark felt the old anxiety creep in; it had been difficult to undo years of conditioning as the tall, self-conscious boy with gangly limbs and a preposterous side part. Training as a lawyer had helped him to overcome some of it (as did a decent barber), yet he often found himself as nervous as he was at age fourteen when speaking to girls he found attractive. After a pause of consideration, he settled on a safe, "So how are you?"
"Well, apart from being very disappointed not to see my favourite reindeer jumper again, I'm well," she replied.
He deserved that after the insult she had overheard him mutter to his mother in January. But before he could respond, a whiny voice interrupted begging for an introduction.
After being presented to her as a top barrister from the same town Bridget had grown up in, he learned that this slightly chunky woman with the nasal voice was in fact Bridget's co-worker Perpetua, who knew him by name and reputation. At this admission of recognition, Bridget seemed genuinely stunned.
At that moment, Natasha appeared at his side. Good manners dictated further introductions. "Ah. Natasha. This is Bridget Jones. Bridget, this is Natasha. Natasha is a top attorney and specialises in family law. Bridget works in publishing and—" He couldn't believe he was saying it even as the words came out of his mouth in an almost perfect parroting of Pam Jones: "—used to play naked in my paddling pool." He took a sip of his wine, inwardly cursing himself. He could bring an Indonesian government official to the brink of tears in the courtroom, but this, once again, had proven disastrously impossible to manage.
Nonplussed, Natasha replied, "How odd."
Bridget smiled, chuckling awkwardly.
Perpetua, who he had forgotten was still standing there, pulled Natasha aside to chat; they were obviously acquainted already. However, the sight of another familiar face obliterated all but the droning of their voices; it felt like a blow to the solar plexus:
Daniel Cleaver. The man who had been the catalyst of the destruction of his marriage.
Their eyes locked over the distance of the room, and it was as if the rest of the crowd had dissolved into nothingness. He hadn't seen Daniel since the day he'd encountered him vigourously writhing on the floor with Mark's then-wife, and frankly, the year-plus since he'd witnessed that scene hadn't been long enough.
"Are you all right?" he heard Bridget ask from a million miles away.
Once more the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, soft yet entirely audible: "He slept with my wife."
"What?" she asked in an exasperated whisper. "Daniel slept with your wife?"
He looked to her, embarrassed at his show of vulnerability. "I don't like to talk about it."
She continued to stare at Mark, who then looked back to where Daniel had been, but he was gone.
"Did he?"
His voice went very quiet. "Yes. It's why she left me."
"Um. Wow. I'm really sorry." She looked up suddenly to the stage, then back to him. "Look. I have to go introduce Mr Ti—er, Fitzherbert. You staying much longer?"
"Not if I can help it," he said drolly.
"Can you at least wait until I've finished?"
He knit his brows, her blue eyes imploring him, and he found himself nodding his head. He realised he had made a grave misjudgment at the Turkey Curry do, and he realised he had a long-overdue apology to make. She smiled; she really was quite pretty. "Great. Great. Be right back."
He watched in a not uninterested fashion as she headed hurriedly towards the stage.
………
The introduction turned out to be a humiliation of the highest order. He was sure that the microphone not being on had completely thrown her off of her game but that couldn't completely explain the nervous incoherence of her words, nor did it explain why she simply didn't check the switch on the side.
He was embarrassed for her, to be sure, but was also inexplicably charmed beyond reason. She was in her own way quite a breath of fresh air.
Unfortunately, Natasha had found him again, sweeping him away from the spot he'd promised not to vacate, and apparently she wasn't letting him out of her sight again—much to his dismay. Bridget stood there by a table bearing row after row of filled wineglasses, a cigarette in her hand, running her thumb along her brow, clearly in her own little world and (he thought) looking a little disappointed. As Natasha became engaged in deep conversation with Salman Rushdie, he was able to slip away quietly.
He had only taken a step or two when, to his chagrin, Cleaver came from out of nowhere and brushed his hand along Bridget's hip in a very intimate manner. She turned to Daniel, a flash of annoyance momentarily crossing her features when she saw who it was.
"Jones," said Daniel smoothly. "That was a brilliant post-modernist masterpiece; oratorical fireworks."
Bridget pursed her lips.
Daniel continued in a low purr: "You're looking very sexy, Jones. I'm going to have to take you out to dinner now whether you like it or not."
She took a step back. "Not, actually, especially after what I just heard you did."
Daniel looked stunned, but recovered his composure, stating in a playful tone, "I've done a lot of things. Enlighten me."
"Oh, I'll bet you've done a lot of things," she said, an edge of irritation in her tone. "Does the name 'Darcy' ring a bell?"
For a moment, Daniel's face turned hard, almost mean, before the mask of roguishness returned. She looked down again, moving her thumb once more along her eyebrow. "Ah. Arsey Darcy. What has that wanker been telling you about me?"
At that prompt Mark strode purposefully closer to the two of them. "Only the truth," he said calmly from just over Daniel's shoulder; her head jerked up and she looked completely surprised at his sudden appearance.
Daniel spun to the side, shooting Mark a poisonous look that effectively communicated his disgust at having his chances for getting a piece of tail that evening blown to the high heavens. He then looked to Bridget, patently hoping to salvage his prospects with her. He simpered, "Jones. Really, I—"
Bridget interrupted with, "What? How can you possibly spin this in your favour?"
Fixing a penetrating look on Mark once more, Daniel said, "She was a lawyer's wife, for Chrissake. She was bored."
There was nothing in the world Mark could have said that could have more thoroughly tanked Daniel's chances with Bridget than his own words did. Bridget's mouth gaped open. "You—are a disgusting human being. I can't believe I almost fell for your crap."
There was a moment more of silence before Daniel, on the receiving end of two rather frosty glares, sulked off.
Bridget turned to Mark, still looking residually cross. "And as for you…"
Mark pursed his lips. "Look, I'm sorry I wasn't where I said I'd be. Natasha—well, she is somewhat controlling, and thinks there's something between us that isn't there."
But her mouth turned up into a grin. "I was only going to ask how much longer were you staying."
"Ah. Well. I'm leaving straightaway, actually. It's long past dinnertime and those satay sticks only went so far."
"Oh," she said.
Mark continued, "I would, however, like to make up for my rude behaviour and ruder comment at the Turkey Curry Buffet. Why don't you let me buy you dinner?"
She looked surprised, but then responded with a grin. "Sure. Besides. I can't possibly stay any longer. I've made a huge fool of myself."
He didn't dare contradict her or (heaven forfend) agree, so he remained silent.
As they walked towards the coat check, Bridget said, "I noticed that, by the way."
"Noticed what?"
"I heard the rather, shall we say, predatory comment Natasha made about you."
Mark did not want to know, and murmured a non-committal, "Hm."
As he donned his trench coat, he was overcome with decorum-related guilt. "Give me a moment. Since we drove here together, I should at least tell Natasha I'm going."
She nodded.
Natasha was speaking animatedly with Lord Archer, but stopped when she saw Mark dressed in his overcoat, looking utterly surprised that he would even think to depart without her. "Pardon me," Mark said to the author as he drew near, then said to Natasha. "Just wanted to let you know I was leaving."
"But Mark," she pouted. "I was hoping we could have dinner together."
'I'll bet you were,' Mark thought. He tried not to show too much glee as he said, "I already have plans."
………
Mark groaned, rubbing his temples.
"For the love of all that's holy, not Chechnya, I beg you."
From across the table, Bridget sounded chastened. "I was just trying to make conversation."
He looked up to his companion across the table, adding in a softer tone, "No… I'm sorry. I've just spent a very long day deposing a number of Chechens for a case involving—no. I won't bring up work." He considered how much the ambient lighting flattered her, accentuated the creamy tone of her skin, made it look almost velvety. "We'll just have to find something else to talk about."
Bridget sipped her wine as their plates of food were silently delivered. As they began to eat, she asked, raising an eyebrow, "So, about that apology…?"
Their eyes met, and he felt a grin tugging at his mouth. She had a disarming way about her that he found he quite liked. "Yes. The apology. I was having a terrible new year's holiday, feeling about four years of age again, made to wear a horrific jumper, and pressured for weeks in advance into meeting you."
Her eyes went wide, but then she smiled. "Well, that makes two of us. Believe me, that dress was not a fashion choice I would ever willingly make, at least while sober." She paused to drink again, then wondered, "What is it about our mothers that makes us powerless to say no?"
"I wish I knew." Mark allowed a smile as well. "So without further ado," he continued, "I sincerely apologise. I had no right to be so unkind."
She pointed a forkful of chicken parmigiana at him. "Especially when you could yourself be accused of verbal incontinence."
"What are you talking about?"
She looked momentarily gobsmacked. "Come on, the paddling pool? You really had to bring that up in front of my colleague?"
Mark cringed. "A thousand pardons, I beg you."
"I'll have to think about it," she said, her serious tone belied by the smile on her face. Her expression changed to one of extreme thoughtfulness as she added, "I suppose I ought to be grateful for your verbal slip. Otherwise, gah, I'd probably be sitting at dinner with Daniel Cleaver instead of you."
A blend of emotions washed over him, and he offered what felt like a forced smile. "Happy to have spared you the pain."
Bridget lowered her head, her eyes, pulling her lips tight. "Sorry."
He suddenly felt pretty guilty that he hadn't really been able to rid himself of the mental image of that awful night. For as long as he could remember he had immersed himself in work trying to wipe it from his memory, instead of dealing with it as he should have. And what had happened certainly wasn't her fault. "You have nothing to apologise for—you weren't there."
"True, I wasn't." He watched as she raised her eyes to him and offered a small smile. "Besides, surely that would have been odd."
An unexpected chuckle escaped him; he suddenly felt much lighter. He liked that about her: she made him laugh.
She regarded him with an odd expression, resting her chin upon her palm.
"What?" he asked, looking down at himself, wondering if he'd spilled tomato sauce on his tie.
She waited until he looked back up to her again before explaining. "You know, you really ought to smile more."
He felt his face flush; he was thankful for the low light.
………
"Do you need driving back to your flat?"
She stepped out behind him and into the cool evening air, and he heard her ask, "Are you hiding a car in your coat pocket? Because I distinctly remember taking a taxi from the book launch." He turned to see she looked plainly bewildered.
"We're not very far from where I left my car. And I recall my mother saying that you lived 'round the corner from me."
She smiled. "Well, yes then, that'd be great."
It was thankfully a perfect spring night as they walked the two blocks from the restaurant. Mark thrust his hands deep into his pockets and exhaled, looking down at his feet as they walked, then over to Bridget, who had chosen that moment to glance up to him. Looking away quickly, she said, "Thank you for dinner. I had a nice time."
"You're welcome. I did too. Ah. Here we are." He stopped at his vehicle, a silver BMW. He remembered his attaché was resting on the passenger seat, so he opened the door to move it. He reached forward at the very same moment she made to take the seat. There was an awkward bumping of heads; she clearly thought he had been opening the door for her. "Sorry," he muttered embarrassedly. He grabbed its handle hastily and tossed it onto the back seat.
He held out his hand to indicate the way was clear, and to his surprise, she took it to steady herself as she sat, then let go as she reached for the seatbelt.
Recovering from the surprise of that innocuous contact, he asked, "All settled? Wouldn't want to catch your foot in the door."
She was still wrangling with the seatbelt buckle and could only see her in profile, but the smile was unmistakable. "Yes. I'm in."
He closed the door and went around to the driver's side. After buckling up, he started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.
"Nice car," she murmured.
"Thank you," he said, indicating a turn towards his own neighbourhood, thinking how utterly pretentious he had always felt owning it. "You'll have to direct me from here."
"Ah yes, you'll want to turn left there—"
"Did you say 'left'?"
"Right." He turned briefly to look at her, and was sure his confusion was obvious, for she amended, "I mean correct. And look for the pub. Er, The Globe."
"A globe or a pub?"
"A pub called The Globe."
"Ah." Within minutes the building in question came into view, and he pulled over and parked at the kerb directly across the street.
"Here you are."
She released the safety belt, looked over to him, and smiled.
He added earnestly, "I could get out, get the door for you… if you want to risk further injury, that is."
She chuckled; she had a lovely laugh. "I appreciate the thought, but it's not necessary." She held on to her handbag with both hands as if afraid she might forget it, and said, "Well. Good night, then."
"Good night." He hoped he didn't sound too stiff or formal.
She opened the door, exited the car and placed her hand on the door to slam it shut, but stopped, turned and bent down to look at him instead. That she was not poorly endowed had not escaped his notice that evening; now, Mark fought the instinct to look directly at that which was so exquisitely (though accidentally) presented to him. "Do you want to come up for a nightcap?"
He thought once more of the Chechens, damn them. "The depositions continue tomorrow, and I have at least three hours worth of work to do tonight."
"Oh." She looked disappointed. She definitely looked disappointed.
Quickly he added, "Perhaps another time?"
She brightened. "A rain cheque it is, then." She stood up straight, then bent again, her chest right where his gaze had settled. Even though he hastily looked away, she saw what his eyes had connected with, and she smirked. "Do me a favour when you get home."
"What?" he asked.
"Burn the bloody reindeer jumper. For me."
He laughed again. "I will."
………
Even though it was rather late in the spring to use the fireplace, the cool evening air had precipitated the need for a fire, so Mark started one before taking a seat on the settee. His papers were laid out beside him on the cushion; he wanted to get a jump on the week ahead and thought he might start reviewing court strategy for the Aghani-Heaney case. But over the course of the subsequent half hour he found himself engaged not in thoughts of work, but of throwing the reindeer jumper into the flames, imagining the delight he'd feel watching the thing disintegrate to ash. He only resisted doing so as the jumper was acrylic—he'd checked—and probably would have sent up a toxic cloud that would have asphyxiated him.
"'Top Barrister Found Dead; Reindeer Jumper to Blame'," he said to himself with a laugh, mimicking Bridget's tone and smirking.
It was then he realised that over the past three days, ever since their dinner together, he had been thinking more about Bridget than he had been about work—or just about anything else, for that matter. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but home. There was no real use in attempting to continue—he was not going to get anything further accomplished that evening. His mind and his heart were just not in it that night.
They were instead in a little flat over a pub.
He smacked himself hard on the forehead; he hadn't even gotten her telephone number. But then he reminded himself that this was what directory assistance was for.
Within moments the line was ringing, and the click-click of the handset being picked up echoed in his ear. "Bridget Jones."
"Sorry to call so late," he began unsurely, "but there's been a slight jumper-related complication."
Silence, then a panicked, "Who is this?"
Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I'm sorry, Bridget. This is Mark. Mark Darcy."
More silence. "Oh. Oh! Hello, Mark." Decided relief in her tone. "It isn't too late; I was just heading out for a drink with the girls. What are you going on about?"
"Well, this jumper, you see—it's acrylic. If I burn it, the noxious fumes might very well kill me, and then the damnable thing would win. So I was wondering—" He cleared his throat. "—if I might cash in that, um, rain cheque this evening for a brainstorming session to help bring about its annihilation."
She was quiet again. He could almost picture the smirk on her face as she asked, "Are you… are you asking if you can come over?"
When she put it like that, it sounded so obvious, even desperate. Thirty six years old, top level human rights barrister, and he was reduced to schoolboy-calibre embarrassment.
She laughed. "I'll take that awkward silence to mean 'yes'."
"If it's no trouble."
"Trouble?" She chuckled again. "I offered in the first place. Come on over, I'll meet you out front in about twenty minutes. And bring the jumper. I have an idea."
………
The moon was mostly full; the streets, mostly empty. It was a crisp, clear night, nearly midnight, and Mark found himself at a railing at the edge of the Thames. He exhaled, was surprised to see his own breath, but was even more surprised that he was standing where he was. He turned his head to his right, where Bridget stood with her forearms resting upon the railing; she consequently looked to him with a devilish grin and held out her hand.
"Well. Let's have it then."
He opened the carrier bag, gripped the reindeer monstrosity, and gave it to her. With a serious expression, she intoned, "Begone, foul thing, and trouble mankind no longer."
She then lobbed the jumper into the river; it cut a rather impressive arc through the air before it was swallowed by the murky depths.
She cheered, laughed, then turned to him. "There. I know I feel better. How about you?"
Her cheeks were pink, loose strands of hair that had escaped its ponytail were blowing around her face, and she was smiling broadly. Unable to stop smiling himself, he said without thinking, "Best time I've had in years."
Her smiled faded and she drew her brows together. "Well, damn," she said suddenly, looking down.
In haste he offered, "I'm sorry, I did it again, verbal incont—"
She looked back up, chuckling. "No, not you. I should have brought that ugly carpet dress, too. Pitched it in. Broken the circle of havoc wreaked by well-intentioned mothers." She smiled again.
"Oh, yes, of course," he said embarrassedly, looking back at the moonlight dappling the inky black river. For a split second he swore he saw the goofy face of that wretched reindeer float to the surface.
Bridget was an enigma, to be sure, and unlike any other woman he'd ever known. Unpredictable, funny, and quite sexy without really being conscious of it, which he liked best of all. He wondered what she thought of him. Was he was just an oddity she felt obliged to humour because they were both from the same circle of family friends? But she had complimented his smile, and she'd invited him up for a drink. Surely that was more than just humouring. He suddenly realised he hoped it was more than that.
He must have been contemplating this for longer than he'd intended; he heard her ask, "It is much colder out here next to the water, isn't it?" At this attempt at reigniting conversation, he looked back to her. She'd started rubbing her hands along her arms; she was wearing the same coat she'd worn earlier that week, and he was immediately reminded of that sleek black dress she'd looked so attractive in. He watched as she cupped her hands and blew warm air into them, then rubbed her palms vigourously together.
"Here. Let me." Drawing his hands from the warmth of his coat pockets, he took her downright icy fingers between his own in an almost prayer-like manner, his hands easily covering over hers. He pressed them together, then rubbed a little bit. She stared up at him in surprise, blinking her wide eyes.
"Better?" he asked. He realised he had not released her hands, nor had she pulled them away.
She nodded, saying in a low tone, "Yes. Definitely better."
He clarified, "I meant your hands."
"I know what you meant."
There was an eternal moment where they just stood there, his hands cradling hers, their eyes locked. His mouth went dry.
"Do you still want that nightcap?" she asked.
With a swallow, he said, "Absolutely. But first—" He stopped. What he really wanted to do was kiss her, but thought it might be a bit presumptuous after a grand total of one dinner and one felonious jumper disposal together. Instead, he drew his hands away, reached into his pockets, and pulled out his gloves. "These will probably be a little large for you, but… here."
She looked at them then back to him with a slightly stunned expression before bursting out with a little laugh, taking the proffered gloves.
"What's so funny?"
She shook her head as she put the gloves on. "Nothing. It's just—I thought you were going to kiss me there for a second."
He blinked. Dodging the self-incriminating admission, he said in a more severe tone than he intended, "Come on, let's go."
They walked back towards Bridget's flat in complete silence, he with his hands in his pockets, she with her hands balled to keep the gloves in place. He did glance to her once or twice to see her gaze fixed firmly on the ground before her. Great. He'd blown it.
As they approached her building, she fumbled for her key in a larger handbag than the one she'd had the night of the launch, the floppy fingers impeding her progress. He could handle social blunders—he was quite used to making them—but he really didn't like how tense and silent the atmosphere between them had become, so he said in the most nonchalant tone he could muster, "I considered it."
Having found her quarry, she put the key into place and turned as best she could with an extra two centimeters of leather on the tips of her fingers. "Considered what?"
He stepped forward and turned it for her, opening the door. "You know. By the river."
"Oh," she said, the same unmistakable look of disappointment crossing her features before she looked down to her hands. He wasn't sure if he'd made things better or worse.
She removed the gloves and gave them back to him, then retrieved the key from the lock and led him upstairs, opening the flat door, inviting him inside ahead of her; he was thankful that at least she hadn't thrown a terse 'good night' at him and slammed the door in his face.
He preceded her up two short sets of stairs, and he took a quick look around her cosy little flat before facing her again. She turned away to hang her keys on a hook just inside the door, then began to wriggle out of her coat, which got caught up in the handbag on her shoulder, causing her obvious frustration. It reminded him very much of a cat chasing its tail while trying to maintain an air of dignity.
And then it struck him: even on a night where he had just participated in the most spontaneous, free-spirited thing he had probably ever done, in the company of an utterly charming woman who clearly welcomed his company, he was still erring on the side of caution. So he reached to help her free herself of the purse strap, took hold of the coat—she was wearing a sleeveless silk top and dark blue denims—and purposefully slid the backs of his fingers along her bare shoulders and arms as he pulled it off.
As he suspected. Skin as soft as it looked.
She froze, slowly turning to face him with a look of shock on her face before she hopped up on trainer toes and pressed her eager lips to his, sliding her now-unencumbered arms around his neck. The coat fell to a heap on the floor, forgotten.
"I take that to mean," he said, his voice surprisingly gravelly as she lowered herself back onto her heels some minutes later, "you wouldn't have objected."
"What do you think?" she wondered, not breaking his gaze.
That was his cue to kiss her again.
………
"That was… quite nice."
He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. "I thought so too," he said softly.
"And you say you're out of practice? Chuh."
He chuckled. "Well, it's been a while since I've done this regularly."
She looked very thoughtful. "I really do think it's like riding a bike. It's not like you can, you know, forget."
He outright laughed, then tightened his embrace. "I could get used to this."
"Get used to what? Kissing? Or maybe—"
He interrupted, "Smiling. Laughing. I don't work in a particularly mirthful field." He pretended to consider the probable next word on her list. "Well. The 'maybe', too."
It was her turn to chuckle. But then she uttered a soft "oh", and said, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her, "I never did ask you what you wanted for a nightcap."
"Hardly matters now," he said with a yawn, sliding his palms along the bare curve of her back. "It's time for breakfast."
The end.