Mismatched Under the Mistletoe - Jess Michaels Page 0,14

guests, looking down some with interest, some in horror and some with annoyance.

“They’re French Hens,” Emily said, covering her ears.

“They’re cocks,” he corrected her, shouting to be heard over the cacophony.

She shook her head like she didn’t understand him, and he laughed as he grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the squawking. She wasn’t wearing gloves and neither was he, and he reveled in the softness of her fingers in his. He couldn’t help but stroke the ball of his thumb in that tender place where her thumb and forefinger met. Her hand squeezed tighter in his in response and he glanced down, but her expression hadn’t changed.

They had to go halfway into the garden, through the hedge maze, before it was quiet enough that he could be heard. “Well, that’s one way to wake your guests up.”

“On French Hen Day, one must provide French hens,” she said, though she looked back toward the house with a concerned expression.

“Except you didn’t. Those are cocks,” he repeated as he leaned forward. “Trust me, I know cocks.”

Her mouth dropped open and she laughed. “Cav, you devil.”

He was painfully aware of how close they were now. He could feel her warm breath in the brisk cold of the morning, brushing his chin, almost touching his lips. He had to stop himself from reaching for her, from tracing the line of her arm with his hand, from tugging her closer and molding her against him.

Her breath hitched, her pupils dilated again, and this time it wasn’t something he could explain away or ignore. For the second time in a quarter of an hour, he felt that she…desired him. His world ground to a halt as he processed that realization.

This was not his heated imagination. This was not wanting something that wasn’t there. Her hands trembled at her sides, she looked at his mouth, she leaned just a fraction closer. Everything about her said kiss me, kiss me, please kiss me.

He might have done so, he wanted desperately to do so, but she seemed to realize what she was doing. She staggered a long step away, her hands coming up to her lips.

“Thank you for your help,” she rasped. “I-I should go inside. I should…I should go inside.”

She pivoted and practically ran toward the house, leaving him to stare after her, stunned. Stunned and…thrilled. If she wanted him, even in some deep, dark corner of herself that she had never allowed free until now, until this moment…then he had a chance. Desire could be molded into something more. Surrender on a physical sphere might open the door for surrender in some other way.

His grandfather’s words rang in his head again. He had never taken his shot with Emily. First because of Andrew. Later because of her grief and the threat it might cause to everything they’d become to one another. But now she was out of mourning. Now she was free. And he had to take this chance. Slowly, perhaps. Carefully.

He walked toward the house, toward the calling, squawking cocks that still raced around the yard beneath the windows, and he could not help the spring in his step. The chance he had longed for from the moment he’d first laid eyes on Emily was happening. And he wasn’t going to walk away this time.

Emily’s hands shook as she poured tea for the women in her party. The men had gone riding for the afternoon. A good thing because since that morning, she had felt…out of sorts. She couldn’t place why.

God, that wasn’t true. She knew exactly why. That moment in the garden with Cav was why. They’d been laughing and teasing as they always did, and then suddenly she’d looked up into his eyes and all she’d wanted to do was touch him. All she’d wanted was for him to touch her. Not as a friend. Not in a grazing fashion she could pretend away later.

She’d wanted him to claim her mouth with his. Hard and fast, until the cold in the air melted away and all that remained was the heat of him.

Had she thought of Cav in sexual terms over the years? Perhaps. Always fleeting, always pushed away. She’d had a few detailed dreams, as well. Especially in the last eighteen months or so. Dreams where he was in her bed…naked. Doing things she hadn’t had done to her in years. She’d woken with her hand between her legs, sweating as her body shook with pleasure. Self-loathing always followed.

But those