"Why did you sleep with Holly?"
Her question hits him like a velvet gloved punch. He's still trying to come to terms with the fact that he's just confessed to Emma Swan that he's fancied her from his first day at White and Mills – in the blasted lift, of all places – when she lobs the next conversational bomb at him.
He could tell her any number of things, of course. He could say that he'd slept with the girl because he'd known she was still madly in love with her erstwhile boyfriend and wouldn't be interested in pursuing a relationship with him. He could also tell her that he'd been drunk and made questionable choices, or that he'd had a stressful week at work and just needed to blow off some steam. Perhaps he should tell her that after Milah had left him and returned to her snivelling coward of a husband, he'd made a vow that true love was nonsense and that the only way to survive in this world was to treat sex as a pleasurable but emotionally detached business deal.
Just then, of course, a robotic voice announces they've reached their floor. Of course. The lift doors open, disturbing the fleeting sense of privacy, but he can't bear to lose momentum, not now. Flinging out one hand to stop the doors from closing again, he meets her gaze steadily – she looks almost afraid of what he might say – and tells her the real truth, the one that underpins every single one of his wretched excuses. "I was lonely."
Her green eyes widen, and he sees her chest rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. They look at each for an endless moment - he swears his heartbeat slows to an alarmingly sluggish dirge - then she lifts her chin, her gaze seeming to bore into his. "You planning on sleeping with anyone else in the office?"
His heart rate immediately does an about-face, kicking into overdrive. He's suddenly very glad that (a) they specialise in different fields and (b) they work for the same team, because if this is what it's like being up against her in court, he's not sure he'd win. Feeling faintly wrong-footed, he steps towards the open doors, gesturing for her to proceed him as the elevator alarm begins to beep. "Is that a trick question?"
He can't see her face as she replies, but her tone is somewhere between irritated and embarrassed, and he suddenly feels back on familiar ground as far as Emma Swan is concerned. "You know what I mean."
He follows her out of the lift and into the small foyer off which the hallways into the different departments lead, coming to a halt at her side. Miraculously, there's no one else in their vicinity, although he suspects that particular situation won't last very long. Feeling the press of passing time more urgently than he has in a long while, he leans as close to her as he dares, telling her another simple truth. "To be perfectly honest, Swan, the only plans I've had since our shared moment during the heady world of laser tag have involved courting you."
Her eyelids flutter, lashes flickering darkly against her pale cheeks as if in disbelief. "You want to court me?"
"Indeed." He allows himself a few seconds to drink in the lovely picture she makes in her black suit and silky red shirt, her golden hair styled in yet another complicated braided arrangement, then he puts all his cards on the table in one fell swoop. In for a penny, in for a pound, he muses, because he might never have this opportunity again. "Or perhaps even woo you, should the opportunity arise."
She meets his gaze steadily, not a fluttering eyelash in sight, and he has a sudden sense of foreboding. "And what if I don't want to be courted orwooed?"
He swallows hard, heat staining the back of his neck. And there it is, he 's tried and he's failed, and while he rather wishes the ground would swallow him whole, if only until he stops feeling like a fool, he can't say he blames her. He is, after all, an unknown quantity with a bad reputation. "Then I would be thankful for that one shared moment," he tells her with a smile, because she deserves much better than an entitled git's petulance, "and offer my substantial photocopying skills any time in the future should you have need of them."
Disbelief once again flickers in her eyes. "You really mean that, don't you?"
A thin sliver of hope breaks into his thoughts. "I rarely say anything I don't mean, love."
The ping of elevator bells sounds in the air, and he silently curses their timing. Without saying a word, Emma turns and starts to walk slowly towards the hallway that will take her to her office and, more importantly, away from him. She hasn't farewelled him, though, and her pace is a far cry from her usual elegant rush. He follows, drawn to her like a magnet seeks true north as their fellow workers pour out of the lifts and stream past them. Perhaps he's imagining things, but he senses their conversation isn't quite finished.
When they're clear of the madding crowd, so to speak, she turns to face him, her expression unreadable. "In that case, forget the drink."
For the second time in as many minutes, his heart sinks. It seems his optimism was misplaced, but again, he can't say he blames her for her caution. After all, he's personally spent the last several years avoiding emotional entanglements of any kind. He knows what it's like to want to keep your distance. "As you wish, love."
His smile is starting to make his face ache, and he feels it's time to retreat while he still has some dignity intact. He gives her a quick nod, and starts to move away, only to be stilled by her next words. "You can take me out to dinner instead. I'm free on Saturday night."
He'd think her teasing unkind, but he's too busy beaming at her like a lovesick fool. The firm's resident ambulance chaser almost bumps into him as he scurries from the lift in the direction of his office (perhaps he saw a potential client slip over on the sidewalk downstairs and is rushing to obtain a wad of business cards, Killian thinks), but nothing is going to stop him from closing this particular deal. "Do you eat Thai food?"
Emma grins at him. "I'll eat everything as long as it's not raw."
Good grief. He bites his tongue, because one false move or bad pun and he'll be out on his ear, but oh, the glorious possibilities. "There's an excellent Thai restaurant in my neighbourhood."
"Great." She nods, still clutching her briefcase with both hands like a shield in front of her. "You can pick up some takeout on the way to myneighbourhood."
He stares at her. He's usually a very quick study, but in this case, he feels the need for clarification. "You're inviting me to your apartment?"
"Well, that depends." She flicks a glance at her watch, then takes a step towards him, gifting him with the most flirtatious smile he's seen since, well, ever. "I mean, the Thai food's a good start, but I still have no idea how you feel about watching old movies."
"Well, that depends." He can no more stop himself from closing the distance between them than he could stop himself from kissing her that first night. "Are you referring to the golden years of Hollywood, or what our young junior staff call old?"
Her wide mouth twitches in a lascivious smirk, and a good deal of his blood immediately heads southward. "Think Hitchcock, not Home Alone."
It's official, he thinks with a bewildering mixture of triumph and despair. God help him, she's bloody perfect.
Standing this close, her perfume teases his nose, but underneath the layer of manufactured scent, he can also smell warm female skin and lip gloss. Looking at her lips, he remembers the taste of her mouth, and almost doesn't trust his voice to speak. "In that case, Swan, I'd be delighted to accept your kind invitation."
"Good." With that, she gives him a brisk nod, spinning on her heel and striding gracefully away.
He watches her go and, not for the first time, he wonders how the devil she can possibly walk in those wonderfully ludicrous shoes of hers.
The back view is almost as good as the front, and he can't help indulging himself in watching the sway of her hips and those long black stockinged legs as she sweeps away in the opposite direction. If he's not mistaken (and he prides himself on his attention to detail), today's outfit is comprised of the very same black suit and heels she'd worn on the evening of their team bonding exercise. If that is indeed the case, he knows exactly how smooth the fabric of that skirt is, especially just above the hips, and just how perfectly her body would fit against his with the added height from those shoes. But alas, he doesn't have time to dwell on such things (or to take a cold shower in the staff facilities), so he turns away at last, striding towards his office with a speed borne of pure jubilation.
He may have just wasted yet another weekend mentally mooning over this woman, but he suspects next weekend will be quite different. If only it weren't six days away.
Buzzing with adrenaline, he blasts his way through his morning's work to the point where his partner raises an eyebrow over his industriousness. "Keep this up and I'll start looking over my shoulder," the older man says with a wry smile.
It's a frequent joke between them, and Killian knows the response that's expected. "No fear, mate." He runs a hand through his hair, and wonders if it's too soon to send Emma an email. "You know me, Marco. The only job I'm interested in doing well right now is mine."
He lasts until Wednesday before he sends her an email, taking almost fifteen minutes to compose a message that by rights should have only taken fifteen seconds. He'd seen her at a distance quite early that morning, scooting through the foyer dressed in exercise gear, complete with baseball cap and ponytail, obviously having been to the gym or perhaps for a run.
Fancy replenishing some carbs at lunch time?
As soon as he sends it, he wants to recall the blasted thing, because what was he thinking? They'd agreed on a time and place for dinner, and now he's badgering her like an infatuated teen. Before he can reach for the mouse again, though, her reply pops up in his inbox. He grins at the screen, because it's now obvious she truly is his type of woman.
Only if I don't have to watch you eat a green salad.
As you get to know me, Swan, you'll learn that's never an issue.
I should be free by 1:30. Meet you downstairs?
Ashamed to be seen with me, love?
Really? Resorting to that line so soon?
Sorry. Couldn't resist. See you at 1:30.
Still grinning, he checks his watch. That gives him two hours to read through a statement from a recently suspended tanker captain that he suspects is a pile of waffle and nonsense, then he can enjoy some fresh air and the pleasure of Emma Swan's company for an hour.
He's definitely had worse Wednesdays.
She's ten minutes late meeting him in the ground floor foyer, arriving with a clatter of heels and a breathless smile and, as always, something in his chest tightens at the mere sight of her. "Sorry, got caught up on the phone with a distressed client."
He waves away her apology, straightening up from where he'd been leaning against the marble column with that he hopes is a casual air that in no way indicates he was beginning to think she wasn't coming. "I do hope you added an extra counselling charge to your fee for the duration of the call."
"I wish," she laughs softly as they make their way out through the revolving glass door and into the bright sunshine. "I'm afraid the time spent being counsellor and hand-holder and new best friend is all classed as non-billable hours."
Once out in the real world, they look at each other, and he's gripped with a sudden sense of 'what now'? He sees his own uncertainty reflected in her eyes, and feels his lips start to twitch with a smile. She's smiling as well as she shakes her head at him, then nods in the direction of the small park across the street, where a large sign outside a free-standing café boasts of New York's best shakes, burgers and fries. "I hope you weren't kidding about the carb loading, because that's where we're going."
He grins, his belly in serious danger of rumbling. "I do like a woman who knows her own mind."
"More like my own stomach at the moment, but thank you." She darts a glance over her shoulder at him as she makes for the crossing, and he sees the pink tinge in her cheeks. "I think."
The waiting line to order is out the door, giving him time to admire her glorious tumble of hair (no braid today) and the fact that she's forgone her jacket, leaving her arms bare. 'I've never eaten here," he tells her, shrugging out of his own jacket and loosening his tie in deference to the midday sun.
"You've been missing out," she shoots back, turning from the menu board outside the front door with a smile that seems to still on her lips as she takes in his newly relaxed state of dress. She looks at his loosened tie, and he can almost feel the hollow of his throat burning at her regard. When her gaze snaps up to meet his (they're standing much closer than he realised) it's like all the air has been sucked from his lungs. Bloody hell. A single bead of sweat follows the line of his spine, and he's never been more gripped with the urge to kiss someone in his life.
"Uh," she mutters, blinking as she turns back to the menu, but not before he sees the same shocked reaction in her own eyes. "What are you getting?"
He has to swallow twice before he can speak. He doesn't want to order lunch. He wants to slide his arm around Emma Swan's waist and pull her close, waiting until her lips part with what he's sure will be a colourful riposte, then kiss the hell out of her. "Why don't you order for both of us?"
She very carefully doesn't look at him, but he can see that her face is flushed. "Two shack burgers it is." She purses her lips as she studies the menu board. "Oh, and you're getting cheese fries too, because I really want to try them."
He doesn't blink an eyelid at her shameless hijacking of his order, which is a fair indication of how much trouble he's in here. Digging his wallet out of his back pocket, he hands her a battered fifty dollar bill without comment. He's been in the States long enough not to bother asking what a shack burger might entail. He suspects it will be so large he'll have trouble taking a bite and will involve a great deal of melted cheese, and if that's what she's having, that's fine with him.
She looks at the money in her hand, then holds it up in front of his nose. "This one's on me."
He bites back his resigned sigh, because he knows she's not doing it for show. "I asked you to lunch, lass."
"Yes, and I intend to eat most of your fries." Reaching down, she grabs his wrist and pulls his hand upwards, then presses the fifty into his palm. "You can buy dinner on Saturday night."
Trying not to make too much of the fact she still seems to be holding his hand, he raises his eyebrows. "Why do I have the feeling that I've just been outmanoeuvred?"
Her smile is both a challenge and a promise and it makes his gut clench in the best possible way. "Maybe because you just were?" She drops his hand, and he has to fight the urge to rub his fingers over where her skin had touched his.
"Remind me never to come up against you in the courtroom, love," he teases, keeping his tone light. Again her gaze meets his with an almost audible snap, and again he has that sense of all the air being drained from the air around them. Her lips part as if to speak, then the queue moves and it's finally their turn to order, and the moment is lost. Perhaps it's for the best, he thinks, because he has the feeling the way to Emma Swan's heart is to let her set the pace, and kissing her while they're waiting to order lunch doesn't really fit the bill.
They manage to find an empty table in the shade (she may have insisted on paying, but she makes no objection to him carrying the large bag of food) and after she dusts the leaves off the small plastic table, he pulls out her chair for her. She looks at him, obviously startled, then presses her lips into a tight line that doesn't quite hide her smile. "Thanks."
As he suspected, a shack burger is quite the beast. However, he's famished, and if he'd realised his lunch companion had been so deadly serious regarding her intention to consume the cheese fries, he may have ordered two servings. She does graciously allow him to sample the side dish, and he's secretly grateful she's saving him from himself. He has a busy afternoon ahead of him, and he can't afford to head back to the office ready for nothing more than a food coma-related nap.
Marvelling at Emma's obviously remarkable metabolism, he tries not to stare at the way she's eating her lunch with such child-like bliss that he almost feels as though he's intruding. "How was your weekend, Swan?"
She hastily swallows a mouthful of burger, then reaches for another fry. "It was great. I told all my friends I was busy doing other things, then sat on my couch and watched old movies."
He grins. Oh, he does like her. He thinks of their conversation in the elevator a few days ago, and how she'd smiled at his telling her that his own weekend had been blissfully dull. He's become so accustomed to people talking up their weekend accomplishments, he'd missed that perhaps he wasn't alone in enjoying a quiet weekend now and then. "Sounds lovely." He liberates a fry from the container sitting in the middle of the table. "As for myself, I did some serious internet research on the topic of restoring a vessel that in reality should have been sent to the depths a good decade ago." He licks his lips with relish, fearing this introduction to cheese fries will only lead to repeat encounters. "I didn't speak to a single soul all weekend, and it was delightful."
She nods in agreement, as only someone who spends their working hours wearing their throat sore with conversation can nod, then rests her chin in her hand, looking at him with obvious curiosity. "You're restoring an old boat?"
"Not yet." He wipes his greasy fingers on the napkin, then reaches for his phone in his pocket. "There's one that I'm thinking of buying, but finding the time to buy the bloody thing, let alone start planning any restorations, is proving more elusive than I thought." He scrolls quickly through the photos on his phone, then holds out his phone so she can see the screen. "Behold, the 1932 Weatherhead fishing boat that may or may not be my undoing for the next few years."
Her eyes widen, and he can only guess at her thoughts. He knows what she's seeing - a plain but classic wooden fishing boat, loved for many decades but sadly left to its own devices for the last five years – but wonders if she can see the possibilities beyond its current less-than-impressive state. To his delight, it seems she can.
"Well." She purses her lips approvingly. "That's going to be quite something once it's had its magical makeover."
"Ah, if only magic were a possibility, love," he says wryly, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "If I do actually purchase the wretched thing, I'll be using elbow grease and sweat to make it come alive again."
"More fun than going to the gym, at least," she counters with a helpful smile, and he chuckles.
"Considering how much I dislike going to the gym, Swan, that's not much consolation, but thank you."
"You don't go to the gym?" She sounds truly taken aback, and he frowns, feeling that he's missed something. Perhaps she disapproves of those who don't partake in formal indoor exercise, which would be a great pity.
"Not unless I'm dragged, kicking and screaming, I'm afraid."
She glances at his shoulders, then his chest. "But you look-," She stops abruptly, an expression of horror flashing across her lovely face, quickly followed by a blush that makes him want to press his palm against her cheek to feel the warmth of her skin. "I mean, you look as though you exercise."
His own face feels more than a little warm as he allows himself a few seconds of internal preening (he's only human, after all) before tossing her a conversational lifeline. "So, you're a Hitchcock fan."
"Yep." She pops another fry into her mouth, not quite meeting his eyes. "Ever since I saw Psycho when I was ten."
"I'm impressed." He's doing his best to eat his mammoth burger and still carry on a conversation, but it's proving more difficult than he'd expected. "I saw it when I was sixteen, I think, and as I recall, I may have slept with the lights on that night." He remembers what she'd said about growing up in the foster system, and wonders at the carer who might think such a film suitable for a ten year old child. "No nightmares afterwards?"
"Not from that, no," she replies, her tone flat, and he realises they are indeed skating close to a past she may not wish to discuss.
Disliking the thought that he's derailed their light-hearted conversation, he admits defeat with his burger, dabs his mouth with his napkin and resists the urge to loosen his belt a notch. Perhaps a visit to the gym in the near future might not be such a bad idea, after all. "And what classics do you have planned for me on Saturday night, love?"
She purses her lips as though deep in thought, then gives him a mischievous smile, much to his relief. "You'll have to wait and see."
"Saturday is four days away." He rests his crossed arms on the table, leaning forward to catch her gaze with his. "The suspense just might kill me."
She gives him a look that plainly says she knows he's not just talking about her movie of choice. "You'll survive, I'm sure."
"Perhaps," he agrees, letting his knee brush against hers beneath the table, seeing the exact moment the subtle touch registers on her face. "How about you, love?"
The pink tip of her tongue flirts with her bottom lip. It's a nervous gesture, he knows (he does it himself on the odd occasion), but it still has him shifting awkwardly in his seat. "You're pretty sure of yourself for someone I've knocked back more than once," she points out, but she doesn't move her knee.
"Ah, but it's not the knockbacks that count, Swan." He slides his foot alone the gravelled ground a miniscule amount, and his calf brushes against hers. God help him, there're two layers of fabric between them, but the barely-there contact still zips up his leg straight to his groin. "It's what you do after them that matters."
She stares at him, her clear green eyes glittering with the same awareness that's currently making every hair on his body stand on end. "You should put that on a bumper sticker."
"Brilliant idea, love." Blowing out the breath that seemed to have gathered hotly at the back of his throat, he smiles at her. "And if they sell, I'll have our IP department draw up a royalty agreement with you." She chuckles at that, and he decides he would very much like to stay here with her for the rest of the afternoon, seeing how many times he can make her smile, but he knows even without looking at his watch that they should head back to the office soon. He's loathe to be the one who calls time on their encounter, but luckily, Emma Swan can be relied upon to be, well, Emma Swan. She looks at her watch, swears under her breath, then starts to toss their lunch debris into the crumpled paper bag.
"I suppose I should tell you my address," she murmurs as she tosses the now bulging paper back gently in his direction. He catches it against his chest, hastily holding it to one side to prevent any condiment/tie disasters. "Can't have you driving around Soho on Saturday night asking strangers if they know where I live."
Soho. He files away that particular detail with some relief. It definitely won't be a chore to get to her place from Brooklyn, although he would have endured an embarrassingly long journey to visit Emma Swan. "That would be grand, love." He pushes back his chair, then waits for her to follow suit. "I wasn't looking forward to having to go cap in hand to HR to beg them for your after-hours details."
She laughs, a decidedly unladylike snort. "Don't tell me there's someone in the firm immune to your charms?"
He tosses the paper bag into the nearest trash can, then turns to look at her. "I'm sure there are plenty, love, but there's only one someone whose opinion of me matters at this point in time."
She blinks, and he immediately regrets his frank confession, because he sees the instant the shutters come down in her eyes. She may have agreed to see him on Saturday night, but he's coming to realise Emma Swan might just be as complicated as she is beautiful. She's absolutely worth getting a few new battle scars for, though.
"We should get back."
"Alas, you are quite right, love."
She's still smiling, but she's also very carefully keeping at least a foot of space between them as they begin to walk. "Where do you live, anyway? Apart from a neighbourhood with a first class Thai restaurant, I mean."
He shoves his hands in his pockets as they make their way through the lunch time crowd towards their building, all the better not to give into the temptation to put his hand on the tempting curve at the base of her spine. "Red Hook."
"Of course you do," she murmurs, obviously amused, and he supposes he is ticking off quite a few boxes on the cliché list. "I guess that explains the boat." She stops in her tracks to avoid a tall woman coming in the opposite direction, talking very loudly on her cell phone and taking no prisoners when it comes to personal space. "Can you see the water from your place?"
He smiles at the barely disguised eagerness in her voice. "You can indeed, Swan. Just say the word."
She breathes out an annoyed huff, but he can see that she's smiling, too. "Not too late for another knockback, you know."
He wisely says nothing to that. There's no point in telling her that she's quite right. That signals the end of the conversation for the moment, and it's not until they're waiting for the lift on the ground floor that she breaks the odd silence that's fallen over them. "See? Not embarrassed to be seen with you at all." She gestures to the bank of elevators. "Getting in the same lift and everything."
She looks so pleased with herself that he can't resist the urge to push herbuttons while they're waiting for the familiar ding of the elevator. Taking a step towards her, he dips his head, putting his lips to the curve of her ear beneath the silken shroud of her hair. "In case you were wondering, Swan, I'd be happy to be seen with you anywhere," he whispers, his gut clenching at the answering shiver he literally sees rippling through her. The sound of footsteps behind them means she doesn't have the chance to retort before they're joined by several other people, and he holds his breath as she crosses her arms over her breasts and flashes him a fierce look that says payback will be coming his way (and soon) so clearly that he almost takes a step backwards.
Bloody hell.
The elevator is crowded, and they stand silently side by side during the journey to their floor. He knows that if he moved his hand two inches to the right, he would be able to tangle his fingers through hers, and he's not sure she'd object. The knowledge makes him feel faintly giddy, a tiny kernel of secret knowledge tucked away between them.
They're the last to exit the lift, trudging after two clerks from the Finance department, and he knows his time with her is about to come to an official end. To his surprise, she touches his arm, a lightening quick brush of her fingertips against his sleeve, then smiles. "Thanks for lunch, Jones."
He bows his head. "I should be thanking you, Swan, for being kind enough to pay for and then consume most of my fries."
"Whatever." She rolls her eyes, but her high cheekbones are tinged with pink. "I'll email you my address, okay?"
"I shall await it with bated breath."
He watches as she walks away (damn, but those legs are almost as distracting as her smile). He heads to his own office and the prospect of three back-to-back client meetings, and thinks that perhaps he's just made the wait until Saturday that much more difficult.
The rest of his week is brutal (just how he likes it, to be perfectly honest), and his only contact with Emma is via email, a haphazard back-and-forth conversation that began two hours after they'd returned from lunch on Wednesday. She'd flicked him through her address and cell phone number - he'd added both to his contacts with almost indecent haste – he'd wished her luck with any future clients crying down the phone, and things has progressed from there. There wasn't anything that couldn't be seen by a third party, but more the short missives that were the email equivalent of cocktail party small talk. Over the course of the next two and a half days, he learns that while she grew up in Boston, she was born in Maine and that her birth parents still live there, which might explain her enthusiastic response to the sight of a battered old fishing boat. The love of the sea is something one is born with, after all, no matter where one spends their formative years.
He also learns that she's moved seven times in the last decade, which makes him wonder if she had been gripped by the same flight-or-fight trap in which he'd found himself trapped after Liam died.
That's not a topic of conversation for casual emails, he decides, but he files the pondering away for a later time.
It's not a one-sided correspondence, by any means. She manages to draw details out of him without prying, and afterwards he'll marvel at her graceful interrogation. She asks him if he's ever owned a boat before (no, he tells her, but he'd spent many a happy day with Liam on his boat), when he'd left the UK (five years ago), what he thinks about the current state of pop music (he tries not to) and inexplicably, if he likes grilled cheese sandwiches.
It's such a relaxed, casual back-and-forth conversation that he's lulled into a sense of detachment, when he finally sees her again, just after six on Friday evening, he is completely unprepared for the violent jolt of attraction that rips through him. She's walking ahead of him in the ground floor foyer just before six on Friday evening, pushing her way out through the revolving glass door. Their last email contact had been an easy-going 'see you tomorrow' sort of thing, but he can't resist the urge to see her in person. Quickening his step, he manages to catch up with her easily on the pavement outside their building, mostly (he suspects) because she's once again wearing a pair of skyscraper heels.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says cheerfully when he reaches her side, and she whirls around, her thick braid almost smacking him in the chin.
"Damn it." One hand on her chest, she narrows her eyes at him. "If you're going to make a habit out of scaring me half to death, Jones, we're going to have to talk."
She's a vision in red, severely testing his resolve to say a quick hello and be done with it. "Sorry, love, but I couldn't resist the urge to wish you a good evening in person." He hesitates, then gestures towards her with one hand, trying to find the words that won't earn him a slapped face, knowing she's probably already seen all the wrong words emblazoned on his face. "I must say, you cut quite the figure in that dress, Swan."
Her gaze narrows a little more, but he sees the sparkle that comes with the joy of verbal sparring in her those bright green eyes of hers. "I guess I could let it pass this once."
The early evening air is warm, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to walk with her for as long as she'll allow, but seeing her glance at her watch reminds him that he wants and what her plans actually are appear to be two very different things. "Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you."
She blinks at the apology, then shakes her head. "It's okay, I'm just meeting a friend for dinner a few blocks away."
He tries to suppress it, but he can't stop the unwelcome trickle of jealousy that seeps into his thoughts. "A special friend?" he asks, keeping his tone light, because he has no place being jealous (even if he is) and she gives him a faintly exasperated look.
"I'm meeting a girlfriend for drinks so she can tell me all about the latest jerk in her life." He hears her unspoken 'not that it's any business of yours' as clear as day, then she smiles at him, and warmth spreads deep in his chest. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wonders what it is about this woman that makes him feel like a callow schoolboy.
"Sounds lovely."
She hikes the strap of her purse a little higher on her shoulder, and glances at her watch again. "At least the bar snacks will be good." She looks as though she wants to say something else, then stops, shifting her weight from one high-heeled foot to the other. The early evening crowd streams past them as they stand on the pavement, and he realises he's not the only one who's having trouble parting company.
He nods down the street in the vague direction of his usual subway station. "I'm heading that way."
Flipping her golden braid over one shoulder, she takes a step in the direction he's just indicated. "So am I."
He quickly matches his step to hers. "You're catching the R train, too?"
"Hardly." The light smack on his bicep takes him completely by surprise (he can't remember the last time he thought of a punch as flirtatious) and he feels his eyes widen as he turns to glance at her. She looks completely unapologetic, almost smug, and he thanks his lucky stars that he was dragged into that wretched laser tag evening.
He's tempted to offer her his arm as they walk, but that might earn him another punch. Instead they walk in a companionable silence towards the station, and it's only when they reach the stairs down to his station that she bumps her shoulder against his. "What about you? Off to spend another evening agonising over whether to buy that boat?"
He smiles to himself. "Actually, I've got a date with a new case-file and a glass or two of Captain Morgan."
"That's right, you're a rum drinker." She wrinkles her nose. "I'm more of a wine fan myself." As soon as the words are spoken, she no longer looks smug but aghast, as though she can't believe what she's just said. He frowns, trying to work out why she should be so horrified at her own words, then he remembers that they've not actually shared a drink, or even discussed their tipple of choice. Besides, he hadn't had a drop of rum since the night they'd kissed –
Her gaze meets his, and he sees it (the answer he already knows) glittering in her eyes. He isn't the only one who remembers that damned kiss in exquisite detail, and now the air between them is thick with the memory of it.
Before he can say a word, she does her best to beat a hasty retreat. "Hey, I'd better get going." She licks her lips nervously, and heat surges low in his belly. "Ruby will be wondering where I am," she adds, but doesn't move a muscle, her gaze still locked with his, and he makes a sudden decision.
"Look, Swan, there's something I should have said days ago."
Her eyes widen, and she looks almost fearful. "What?"
Reaching out, he takes her hand in his, rubbing his thumb lightly over the smooth ridge of her knuckles. "I need to apologise."
Her pale throat works as she swallows, anxiety still brimming in her eyes. "For what?"
He takes a deep breath. "For kissing you."
She frowns, and he feels her hand tense in his. "You're sorry you kissed me?"
"No, I'll never regret that," he says in a rush, because she must surely know there's no way he would ever be sorry he shared that moment with her. "I am sorry I kissed you in such a boorish fashion, though."
She stares at him for what feels like an eternity, and around them the beeping car horns and noise of human traffic seem to fade away. "Apology accepted." Her lips part softly as her gaze searches his, as though searching for all the words he's yet to say. "After all, I did kiss you back."
"Aye." He threads his fingers through hers, marvelling that her palm fits perfect against his. "That you did."
He's not sure if she leans closer first, or if the crowd around them simply conspires to push them together, but her free hand is suddenly curling around the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling him towards her. Her mouth touches his in a soft, slow kiss, and he forgets everything but the taste and feel and smell of her, the scent of gas fumes and cigarette smoke vanishing until there is only Emma, warm and sweet and pliant. His hand is low on her back - God help him, he doesn't remember moving his arm – urging her closer, and when he feels the soft press of her breasts against his chest, he sighs into her mouth, a sigh she catches and breathes back into him.
The kiss lasts no more than a few seconds, but as she pulls back, he knows that everything has changed. His heart is hammering against his ribs, his head swimming with her, hunger roaring through his blood. She sways against him, her hands still gripping his coat lapels, her breath hot against his lips, her mouth little more than a whisper away from his. He's never wanted to kiss someone more – his whole body aches with it – but he doesn't. Not here, not in the middle of the bloody street. Swallowing the hard knot in his throat, his voice is barely a sigh. "That was-"
"A kiss goodnight," she whispers back, her nose brushing against his, then her hands drop, and the soft warmth of her is gone as she steps back. "I gotta go." She pauses, literally balancing on the balls of those ridiculous shoes of hers, then she smiles, a soft curving of her mouth that has him half-hard in a space of a heartbeat. "See you tomorrow around seven."
"Until then, Swan." For what seems like the umpteenth time since their first meeting, he watches her leave, his heart in his mouth and his pulse screeching in his ears like a wretched banshee. When she's been swallowed up by the crowd, he touches his fingertips to his lips, as that might help capture the taste of her. When he's certain his legs are steady once again, he makes his way slowly down the stairs to the station. He can smell the faintest hint of her perfume on the front of his shirt, and the taste of her lipstick teases his tongue when he licks his lips.
His train is late, crowded and smells of stale sweat and beer, but he grins like an idiot the whole way home.