Page 72 of The Fall Before Flight

Whatever

I might, in fact, be a little drunk.

“Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I mutter distractedly.

“Pretty cold, though.”

Mr. Conversation over here.

I lower my phone and look at my companion, prepared to dissuade any notions he has of scoring casual sex. He’s dressed as a pirate, complete with eye patch, bandana covering the lower half of his face, and a fancy hat set at an angle that obscures most of his visible eye. A billowing white shirt is unlaced at the throat to expose a tanned neck and a patch of smooth skin. Snug black pants flatter the hell out of his long legs.

Pulling my head from the gutter, I glance up again, trying unsuccessfully to see his face. Why does he seem so familiar? I’m two beers past answering that question or considering it for longer than a second or two.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asks with a small chuckle.

That chuckle.

My breath catches. My skin prickles. Reaching forward, I yank the bandana down his face. It snags on his ears and he makes a small, pained noise.

“Sorry not sorry,” I breathe.

He laughs, tugging the bandana the rest of the way down and pulling off his hat. The eyepatch is next, flipping up to expose his other bright blue eye. Both of them are now fixed on my face, their expression unreadable.

“Happy Halloween, Amelia.”

Not yet recovered from shock, I continue gaping. “What are you doing here?”

“Kinsey sent an invitation to my office last month. I wasn’t going to come—it’s not exactly professional—but then I realized you’d probably be here and professionalism flew out the window.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like the words didn’t just explode my brain. “What?”

His gaze lowers to my chest. Electricity follows the path of his visual caress. The zipper is still above my breasts, but I suddenly feel more naked than the skinny-dippers currently in the pool.

Leo drags a hand over his mouth, eyes snapping up to mine. “I’m not good at this, so I’m just going to tell you the truth. I’ve never been more attracted to anyone in my life than I am to you. I thought a few months would change things, but it didn’t. Hasn’t. I’m not sure what to do about it, or what I’m asking, or if you even?—”

“Are you propositioning me?” I blurt.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He swallows hard. “I’m not sure I can offer you a normal, uh, situation.”

What the WHAT?

His feet hit the ground between our chairs. Propping elbows on his knees, he lowers his head, shaking it like he has no clue how he got here. I want so badly to touch the dark strands, to pull his head up and kiss him until we both go insane, but my emotions are bouncing around like kids on sugar. Not all of them are excited, either. And one of them feels a lot like heartbreak.

“Tell me what to do, Amelia,” he says softly. “Tell me what you want.”

My libido provides a flashback of the hot springs. Warmth surges through me, coalescing in my breasts and between my legs. I’ve relived that night so many times I should own stock in batteries.

Do I want more of that?

Hell yes, hollers Vagina. Best sex ever!

Wait a darn minute, cautions Heart. He’s asking for sex, not a date.

A date would mean… well, dating. A potential relationship as equals. Being seen together in public.

He’s a respected psychiatrist.

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