It’s a necessary thing—my cheek pressing against the soft skin of her throat—but her answering shudder has me squeezing my eyes tighter, clenching my jaw a little more. I turn my face to graze her throat with mine, mingling our scents into a burgeoning aroma that clouds the small space of the car. I can hear her breath quicken and feel her body stiffen everywhere she’s touching me, and for the briefest of moments there is a bizarre urge to pull her to me as tightly as I can and bury myself in the smell and taste of her.
Which is utterly insane, and it is this realization that has me hastily pulling away from her.
“That should—” Can she hear how loud my heart is beating? “That should do it, I think.”
Her cheeks are flushed as she nods slowly, turning away from me to breathe in against her shoulder again. There is a part of me that protests when she pulls away to settle back into her side of the car, and I shove it down as she nods more confidently.
“That will definitely work,” she says, her voice huskier than it was a moment ago.
“Remind me . . .” Honestly, I just need to get my mind somewhere else. “Remind me what the parameters are.”
Her eyes are heavy-lidded, almost like she’s sated. It shouldn’t be enticing. “Parameters?”
“What does your grandmother know about us?”
“Oh.” She nods dazedly. “Right. Yeah. Our star-crossed romance?”
“Yes,” I answer. “That.”
“We’ve only been dating for a month,” she tells me, sobering a little. “You asked me out for coffee in the break room, because you were captivated by my beauty and feminine charms.” She notices my eyebrow quirking. “I have an assload of feminine charm, thank you very much.”
“Clearly,” I answer with only a hint of amusement.
Humor is good. Humor makes me feel less like I want to kiss her.
“We’ve been on a few dates a week since then,” she goes on, ignoring me. “I haven’t met your parents yet, but you think I am the bee’s knees.”
“Excuse me?”
“The tits?”
I frown at her, and she laughs, diffusing the tension even more, thankfully.
“You think I’m great,” she clarifies. “I hung the moon. We are deliriously happy. You’ve never seen a model train in your life.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She shakes her head. “Never mind. Are you ready for this?”
“I . . .” I take another glance at the very innocent-looking home we’re parked in front of. Nothing about it suggests that I have anything to worry about when going inside. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good.” She gives me an encouraging nod. “Just remember—whatever you do . . . You absolutely do not want to see the wedding book.”
“The what?”
“Just trust me on this.”
She’s already getting out of the car before I can press for more details on that strange warning, and I realize when her door closes that she’s expecting me to follow.
It’s just a normal house with normal people, I remind myself. There’s nothing to worry about.
Even with all my assurances, for some reason I still find myself terrified to go inside.
* * *
?Moira Carter is a delightful nightmare. It’s really the only way I can describe her.
She’s loud, opinionated, caring, funny, and most of all, she is completely obsessed with Mackenzie’s well-being. Not that I can label this a flaw, by any means. I doubt anyone would argue that caring too much is a point against a person. I’ve survived a fierce hug and a warm welcome from this small, graying woman who laughs too loud and talks too much, everything about her the exact opposite of the family gatherings I’m used to. I can’t really decide what to make of it, honestly, but I wouldn’t say I dislike it.
“So,” Moira is saying from across the table as she hands me a bowl of peas. “How long did you have your eye on my Mackenzie?”
I busy myself with scooping more peas than I’ve ever eaten in one sitting onto my plate, if only to give myself a moment to think. “Oh, I . . . Well. You know. Mackenzie is . . . hard to ignore.”
Moira smiles. “Because she’s so beautiful, right?”
“Gran,” Mackenzie chides. “Can you not?”
“Shush,” Moira clucks. “Do you know how long it’s been since you brought someone home to meet us?” She pats her husband on the arm, looking put out. “What’s it been, Phil? A year? Maybe more?”