One Little Thing

by Kimberly Lang

  “Thank you. It was nice not to eat alone.”

  “I’d still like to take you out, though.” There. I did it.

  She smiled. “I’d like that. I’m going to be busy the next couple of days—the furniture comes Monday, so I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow to be ready for that, and then Monday will be insane, of course . . .”

  “How about I call you Tuesday? If you’re caught up or just ready for a break, then we’ll make a plan.”

  “That sounds good.” She followed him to the front door.

  “And if you need anything before then, just call.”

  “I will.”

  The end of that exchange left them standing awkwardly by the door, the ease of their earlier conversation completely gone. The tension felt thick—or maybe it was just him feeling it—but Sophie was close, closer than strictly required, and not moving away.

  Just do it.

  You’ve got nothing to lose.

  To his surprise, Sophie met him halfway.

  She was tall, so her lips easily reached his. It was a light, almost hesitant touch that melted into a sigh, her body leaning in against his. Quinn anchored his hands on her hips at first, but as the kiss deepened, he let his hands slide around her back to pull her closer.

  And that’s when things got really interesting.

  Sophie’s arms draped over his shoulders, and the caress of her fingers against the nape of his neck sent a shiver through him. Sophie gasped as though she felt that shiver herself, and what started as a simple good-night kiss turned hot. Hungry.

  His fingers tangled in her hair and the other hand cupped her jaw, and Sophie’s hands tightened on his shoulders, her nails biting through his shirt and into his skin.

  How long that kiss went on, he didn’t know, but Sophie was breaking away, gasping unevenly for air. She didn’t release him immediately, though, burying her head into his neck and pressing temple-to-temple against his.

  His heart was thumping hard in his chest, and he wasn’t feeling terribly steady on his feet, either. Damn. He held her quietly for a moment, waiting for his pulse to even out, then pressed a kiss into the tangle of curls above her ear.

  “Damn, Quinn,” she whispered.

  It was an appreciative statement—a nice stroke for his ego—and one he’d like to echo, provided he could ever manage a full lungful of air again. Instead, he just nodded and let his fingers play along the dent of her spine until she caught her breath and peeled herself off him.

  Her mouth was dewy and her eyes were dark, but she smiled carefully as she put space between them. When she lifted a hand to push her hair back off her face, he was pleased to see it shake a little. After one more deep sigh, she’d moved far enough away to break the physical connection between them. His hand dropped back to his side. She opened her mouth to speak, then cleared her throat and tried again. “Good night, Quinn.”

  “Good night, Sophie. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Walking out of there was hard. He was hard, and his blood pressure was taking forever to normalize. His skin was so hot, even the muggy night felt cool. On the street outside her place, out of sight of the windows, he stopped and ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the effects of that kiss.

  It didn’t quite work.

  Chapter Five

  Crimney. That boy can kiss.

  That one thought kept barging in to Sophie’s thoughts, no matter how much she tried to focus on anything other than that kiss.

  It wasn’t like unpacking boxes was much of a mental activity to begin with, but unwrapping knickknacks and putting books on shelves and dishes in cupboards weren’t exactly distracting. Washing, drying, and folding dozens of sheets and towels was even worse for allowing mental wanderings. She could try to work on some paperwork, maybe pay some bills, but that wasn’t a project she wanted to do when there was so little a chance she’d actually concentrate on it and not make a complete muck of the bookkeeping.

  She went to go hang shower curtains in the bathrooms instead.

  It was almost embarrassing, the way she’d come this close to ripping Quinn’s clothes off and climbing him like a tree. And while she could make excuses for herself, the truth was—only admitted privately here to the tiles of the bathroom of room three—that she wanted Quinn.

  She’d had a few dates in the last eight months—none since she got here, of course, but she hadn’t had the time or the inclination—so it wasn’t like Quinn was some kind of rebound guy or that she was just desperate or something. The dates she’d gone on in Boston after her divorce had been with perfectly nice, very handsome men, but none of them had pushed her to the edge like that. Especially not with just a kiss.

  It might be a little frightening if she could get her libido under control long enough to consider anything other than how good Quinn was with his hands and mouth and how those hands and that mouth would feel on other parts of her body.

  It was disturbing, but not in a bad way.

  And it wasn’t just her hormones talking. Quinn was nice, genuinely so, a perfect example of a southern gentlemen without any good ol’ boy nonsense. He made her feel comfortable in his company, and there was something just stable and earnest about him . . . It was hard to describe, but it was there.

  And then there was that kiss . . . Damn.

  Had she really basically told him not to call her until Tuesday? Granted, she’d said that before he’d kissed her, but Tuesday seemed a hell of a long time away now.

  Patience, she counseled herself. Now was not necessarily the best time to rush headlong into something. It wasn’t just that she needed to focus on getting this place open—which she did—but she had to put herself back into the small-town mindset. She needed people to like and respect her—not just for the sake of her business’s success, but also for her own long-term happiness living here. Making herself the center of gossip over an affair with Quinn wasn’t a good idea, regardless of how on-board her libido might be.

  Which meant she should probably quit counting down to Tuesday and think more about throttling back on the whole thing, concentrate solely on getting both herself and the business settled and running smoothly before even considering moving anything with Quinn forward at all.

  But then she thought about that kiss again, and the tingle spread across her skin like goose bumps rising on a chilly day.

  The right and rational thing to do was fighting a tough battle against basic, biological, and chemical urges.

  It was going to be a long, tough forty-something hours.

  At eight o’clock the next morning, Sophie had two enormous moving vans in her parking lot. She’d been up since dawn, the combination of excitement and visuals of long to-do lists making it impossible to sleep. The sun was out and bright in a cloudless sky, and the temperature and humidity were going to be unforgiving today. With every door in the building propped open, the air conditioning had no chance of keeping up, so she turned all the fans on high, prayed for a strong breeze, pulled her hair up off her neck, and dressed in as little clothing as she could and still be decently covered.

  Over-caffeinated and slightly overwhelmed at the reality of what had to happen today, she was nearly vibrating as she addressed the crowd gathered in her dining room: Alyse and the three maids, the guys from the moving company, and Alyse’s younger brother and a friend of his who’d been pressed into service for the day.

  “Every piece and every box has a tag on it indicating which room it goes to. If it’s fallen off, give me a yell, I’ll tell you where to take it. There’s too many stairs in this place to be climbing them unnecessarily. Each room has a diagram taped to the door that shows where to place the furniture inside. If you have any questions, yell for me. There’s drinks and snacks in the kitchen, so please help yourself and stay hydrated. Any questions?” No one said anything. “Then let’s do this.”

  The ne
xt several hours were the organized chaos of constant movement and incessant noise, but she was beginning to see the shape of things to come. The house quit echoing as rugs were laid and furniture was set in place, and the excitement was beginning to gain traction over the overwhelmingness of it all.

  The blast of cold air from the refrigerator as she pulled out sandwiches for her crew’s lunch was blissful, and she took a moment to let it wash over her, fanning the neck of her shirt to let the air reach her sweaty chest.

  Backing through the swinging door into the dining room, she nearly dropped the whole tray when she turned around and saw Quinn winding his way through the boxes and random chairs. Honestly, he’d barely crossed her mind at all today, caught up as she was in the dozens of things all happening at once, and she belatedly realized she hadn’t even bothered to check to see if he’d been on the beach this morning with Scoop.

  He was casually dressed—not “play with Scoop on the beach” casual—but in cargo shorts that showed off his calf muscles nicely and a T-shirt that was already starting to stick to him from the humidity.

  That kiss she’d being ignoring flashed back to the forefront of her mind, knocking her off her stride a bit.

  Recovering quickly, she put the tray on a table and wiped an arm across her forehead, pushing the sweaty strands of escaped hair back. She did not want to think about what she looked like—or smelled like, for that matter—right now. “What are you doing here?”

  “Things were slow today, so I came to see if I could help.”

  “Yet you arrive just in time for lunch.”

  “That was not entirely coincidental,” he confessed with a smile. “You’re a good cook.”

  “Well, I’m happy to feed you, but this is not fun work. You don’t have to stay and help.”

  He reached for one of the pickle slices and popped it into his mouth. “Since I’d like to see you tonight, volunteering my labor is not fully altruistic.”

  A little thrill of excitement shot through her.

  So much for being patient.

  * * *

  He’d helped a lot of people move, and while he’d known this would be on a larger scale, the actual scale hadn’t been very clear. There was a huge difference between moving a friend from a two-bedroom apartment and moving all the furniture and fixings into an eight-room bed-and-breakfast.

  He’d never moved so much stuff around in his life.

  Sophie was sprawled, arms and legs wide, on the carpet in the main room under a fan going full blast. He was sore, sweaty, and tired—and a little jealous there wasn’t room under that fan for him. He consoled himself by standing over one of the air-conditioning vents as it worked overtime to cool down the house. He was reassessing his earlier, ridiculously naive plans about getting done early and taking Sophie out tonight. “I just want a beer and a shower,” he muttered.

  “There are nine bathrooms. Take your pick,” Sophie said, not even opening her eyes. “And there’s beer in the small fridge in the kitchen.” She turned her head in his general direction and cracked one eyelid open. “If you go, bring me one, too, please.”

  Climbing those stairs again was out of the damn question, but he could drag his carcass to the kitchen. Just. Sophie pushed herself up to a sitting position and accepted the bottle with a tired smile. “Thanks. And thanks for your help today. We’d still be at if you hadn’t been here.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What about poor Scoop? Do you need to go check on her?”

  He leaned back on his hands. “Scoop’s at my mom’s. She demands weekly visitation with her granddog.”

  She nodded, then drank deep from the bottle. Out of nowhere, she laughed. “Oh. Now I get it. Scoop. You’re a journalist. I hadn’t put it together until now.” The complete non-sequitur had him blinking at her in confusion. That caused her to laugh again. “Sorry. I’m tired and my brain is everywhere at the moment.”

  He nodded. “She was a stray that wandered up to the paper’s office. The intern we had at the time thought it was appropriate.”

  “It’s cute.” She took another long drink of her beer and then stretched. “Mercy. I feel gross.” Cutting her eyes over to the staircase, she shook her head. “But if I have to climb those steps one more time today, I’ll kill myself.”

  “I had a similar thought.” He pushed to his feet and held out a hand. “Come on.”

  “What?” she asked, but she took hold of his hand anyway and let him pull her to her feet.

  “I have an idea.” He led her out the French doors and down the steps to the beach, stopping only long enough to step out of his shoes.

  “I do not have the energy for a walk on the beach,” Sophie protested, but she removed her shoes as well, sighing happily as she wiggled her toes in the sand.

  “Neither do I.” Taking her hand again, he led her straight to the water line and kept walking.

  “Are you insane?” she said, when the water was about knee height, and she’d figured out he wasn’t going to stop.

  “It’ll feel good.” He released her hand and walked backward until the water was mid-thigh. Then, arms wide, he let himself fall into the water. The shallow water wasn’t cold, but it was refreshing, and when he surfaced, he felt somewhat human again.

  Sophie’s look told him she thought he was barking mad. “Do you feel better?”

  “Much,” he answered and went under again. This time, when he came back up, Sophie was under water, and she bobbed to the surface next to him a moment later, pushing her wet hair back from her face. “See?”

  “You were right, I feel better already.”

  The water was only waist-deep here, and when Sophie stood, her T-shirt plastered itself to her skin, outlining every curve as the breeze caused her nipples to harden. He felt Sophie’s eyes on him and forced himself to look up, a little ashamed of himself to be caught ogling her like that.

  But there was no censure in her eyes. If anything, that was interest—and maybe even permission. Under the water, he reached for, and found, her waist, pulling her closer to him and dropping his head to find her lips. Sophie responded immediately, twining her arms around his neck and fitting her body into the contours of his. The movement of the tepid water against his legs and the cooling breeze across his shoulders only contrasted the warmth of Sophie’s body and the heat of her mouth, creating a mixture of sensations that had every nerve on high alert.

  Kissing Sophie was a heady experience, one he was very willing to get lost in, but catcalls from people on the shore brought him back to his senses. As Sophie pulled away, he could feel the imprint of her lingering like a shadow, but she was wading back toward dry land and towing him along behind.

  He wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or not.

  Chapter Six

  Patience and temperance and self-control were for people who weren’t currently kissing Quinn Haslett. Or being kissed by Quinn Haslett, for that matter.

  The stern talking-to she’d given herself yesterday had been a giant waste of time. She was ready to jump his bones, right here, right now, damn the consequences. If it weren’t for the fact she knew sex and sand were a bad combination, she’d probably be naked already.

  There wasn’t even a good reason to assume there would be consequences, so why deny herself—or him, either?

  Jeez, the trek back up to her place seemed to take forever.

  Quinn stopped at the bottom of the steps, turning the knob to the outdoor shower and stepping under it to rinse off. In the time it took her to think I bet that water is cold, Quinn had pulled her under the spout with him, and while the water was cold, it was no contest against the heat radiating off him in waves.

  She closed her eyes long enough to let the water wash the salt from her face, and when she opened them again, Quinn’s shirt was off and hanging from the banister, and he was pulling her to him wit
h clear intent.

  Hot damn. This is happening.

  That knowledge was enough to scramble her brain—which Quinn’s kisses were already doing a pretty good job of already—so how they made it to the porch and into the house, she didn’t quite know. Nor did she know exactly how or when her shirt came off. But she did register the feel of the carpet against her back and the delicious weight of Quinn’s body on top of hers.

  And it was better than she hoped.

  Quinn was lean and solid, and his skin was softer than expected, letting her hands slide easily over his back and shoulders, exploring the planes and ridges of the muscles she’d appreciated from afar for so long.

  He sat up, pulling her into his lap so her legs wrapped around his waist, and she groaned at the contact. Her bra was gone with a few twists of Quinn’s hands and his mouth blazed a hot path down her neck and across the tops of her breasts.

  Caught in the rush, it took her a minute to realize Quinn wasn’t kissing her now, and, in fact, had asked her something. “What?” she managed to wheeze, trying to bring his face into focus.

  “Condoms. Please tell me you have some.”

  The naked desire on his face nearly took her breath away again. “Upstairs. My room.”

  “That is about the only thing that could convince me to climb those stairs again today.” Untangling himself from her arms and legs—which, she discovered as she tried to stand, weren’t working entirely properly right now—he prodded her toward the stairs.

  Anticipation gave her a rush of energy, and she took the stairs two at a time with Quinn hot on her heels.

  She left Quinn in her bedroom as she went into the tiny attached bath, opening drawers and rifling through them, trying to remember where she would have stored something she didn’t think she’d be needing for a while. About the time panic was setting in, she finally found them. “Oh, thank goodness,” she whispered.

  She was a little disappointed to find Quinn seated on the edge of her bed—instead of naked and in it—but standing between his thighs, held firmly by the hips as he took his sweet damn time kissing his way across her chest, over her breasts and ribs, belly and hips, she got over that disappointment pretty quickly. Her death-grip on his shoulders was the only thing keeping her upright by the time he flipped the clasp of her shorts open and let them drop to the floor.