Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(78)

I put a fist in front of my mouth and breathe deeply. I’m going to die.

Kate tips her head, then leans in, which presses her breasts together. By some superhero strength, I manage not to look at them. “I’m ready to go if you are,” she says.

The final thread of my restraint snaps. I stand abruptly, sending my chair scraping back, then pick up my plate and bowl to hide how physically in hell I am. “Yes. I’m ready. Thank you for dinner,” I tell Maureen and Bill.

“Of course, dear,” Maureen says, smiling up at me.

“Don’t worry about the dishes,” Bill tells us as Kate and I gather up our plates and silverware. “Go on and have your fun.”

“We can throw them in the dishwasher,” Kate says. “It’ll take ten seconds.”

I’m already ahead of her, storming into the kitchen, rinsing my plate, bowl, and silverware under the water, then setting them in the dishwasher.

“Okay. Love you!” I hear Kate tell her parents.

The door swings open from the dining room and Kate walks in. I watch her set down her dishes, then stop abruptly and turn, disappearing from the kitchen, before reappearing. She shrugs on her coat and her beat-up cross-body bag, while I shove her dishes into the dishwasher. Somehow nothing breaks, even though I’m not remotely watching what I’m doing.

I stare at Kate, who looks so her right now, with that messy bun and her ratty jacket and beat-up bag. Something inside me snaps. I kick the dishwasher closed, close in on her, then walk her back to the counter, my hands on her hips, my mouth a whisper from hers. “I want to kiss you, Kate. Very badly.”

She blinks up at me, her eyes growing hazy as her hands drift up my arms to my shoulders. For a moment, I’d swear I have her, that her mouth’s about to meet mine, but then she ducks out from under my arms and spins away. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” I turn, breathing roughly.

Slowly, she backs toward the door, like a cornered animal, a flush on her cheeks, a feisty glint in her eyes. “Not yet,” she says again.

“Katerina, what’s—”

My voice dies off as she turns the handle, then wrenches open the door.





? TWENTY-NINE ?


    Kate


I’ve barely made it to the bottom step of the back stairs when Christopher’s arm wraps around my waist and spins me his way. I gasp, shocked by how fast he is, how quickly he whips me around and pins me against him.

And then he bends, scoops me up, and throws me over his shoulder.

I squawk as he starts to march us across the yard.

“Christopher!”

“Katerina,” he says pleasantly.

“What are you doing?” I squeak.

“Giving you exactly what you deserve for trying to run off.” He lifts a hand and swats my butt.

I squeak again. “Did you just spank me?”

“And if I did?”

“Stop it!”

He grins. I hear it in his voice. “Why? Because you don’t like it? Or because you don’t think you should?”

I turn bright red. Reaching down, I swat his ass back. “Put me down, you caveman.”

Immediately he stops and crouches, letting me slide down his body.

I’m a little wobbly, and I grip his arm, steadying myself as he slips a hand around my waist to steady me, too. Words evaporate on my tongue as I stare up at him, his face cast in sharp moonlight and shadowy darkness, as the wind rattles bare branches and whips between our houses.

“Why did you tell me not to kiss you yet?” he asks quietly.

I stand there, silent longer than I’d like, struggling for the courage to explain myself, to confess that I’m scared of how much last night meant to me and I’m scared it isn’t the same for him—that for him this is a low-stakes bet, and for me, it’s the wager of my life.

“I’ll tell you,” I promise. “Soon. Just . . . not yet.”

His jaw tenses. “You keep saying that—not yet.”

I smile softly. “And I mean it.”

He sighs, hanging his head. “Let me get my jacket.”

He darts away up the stairs to his back porch, punching in the lock code, then disappearing inside. I wander slowly toward his house, inspecting it. Oddly, it looks a little outdated and weather-beaten. The windows are the same ones I grew up seeing, at least thirty years old. The paint on the sill is peeling here and there. The house’s exterior looks tidy but worn down.

Christopher’s got more money than God. So why hasn’t he used it to keep up the place?

“Let’s go.” He’s beside me before I realize it, breaking me from my reverie.

Setting his hand low on my back, he guides me between our houses toward the street we’ll walk down to catch the train. Heat spills from his hand through my jacket. I feel his fingers curl in on my body, his palm sliding to my waist, then drawing me closer. Looking up at him, I’m breathless for a moment. His dark hair’s everywhere in the wind, the lamplight dancing down his thick brows and lashes, that strong nose and sensual mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. He’s so beautiful, it makes me ache.

Maybe I do feel ready for some kissing after all.

“So.” I clear my throat, biting my lip. “The kissing thing.”