Page 84 of Across the Boards

“I’ll take that,” I say, grinning. “Better than a chapter you’re planning to edit out.”

“The book’s not finished yet,” she cautions. “No guarantees on the final draft.”

“Fair enough.” I raise my glass again. “To works in progress.”

“To works in progress,” she echoes, a soft smile playing at her lips.

The rest of dinner passes in a comfortable rhythm of conversation and shared dessert (a tiramisu she declares “almost as good as Marcel’s”). When the check arrives, she reaches for her purse, but I wave her off.

“Traditional date, remember? I asked, I pay.”

“Very traditional,” she notes. “Next time it’s my treat, then.”

Next time. The casual confirmation that there will be a next time makes my heart do a ridiculous little flip.

“Deal,” I agree, trying to sound nonchalant while internally doing cartwheels.

The drive home feels shorter somehow, our conversation flowing easily from topics serious to ridiculous. I tell her about my sister’s kids and their budding hockey obsessions. She shares stories about her most grammatically challenged clients and the time she nearly got fired for correcting the CEO’s memoir.

When we arrive back at our complex, I walk her to her door, hyperaware that this is the traditional end-of-date moment. The will-they-won’t-they kiss scenario that’s been played out in countless movies.

“I had a nice time tonight,” she says, turning to face me at her door.

“Nice enough for a second traditional date?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.

“I think that could be arranged.” She smiles, her keys jingling slightly in her hand. “Though the Miami game is tomorrow, so your schedule might be complicated for a while.”

“I’ll always make time for you,” I say, the sincerity in my voice surprising even me. “Hockey’s just a job. This—” I gesture between us, “—this matters more.”

“Careful, Carter. That kind of talk might make me think you’re serious about this.”

“I am serious about this,” I say quietly. “About you.”

She studies me for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. Then, with a decisiveness that takes my breath away, she steps forward, rises onto her tiptoes, and presses a soft kiss to my lips.

What begins as gentle exploration quickly transforms as she leans into me, her body saying what words haven’t yet. My hands find her waist, and in one fluid motion, I lift her up. She makes a small sound of surprise against my mouth as I carry her the few steps to her porch railing, setting her down carefully on the wide wooden beam.

“Is this okay?” I murmur against her lips, not wanting to presume.

Her answer is to wrap her legs around my waist, drawing me into the space between her thighs. “More than okay,” she breathes, her fingers threading through my hair.

The new position puts us at perfect eye level, and I take a moment to simply look at her—the flush spreading across her cheeks, the slight swell of her lips from our kiss, the way her eyes have darkened to the color of stormy seas.

“You’re extraordinary,” I tell her, voice rough with desire. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

She smiles, a slow, confident curve of her lips that sends heat through my entire body. “Show me.”

I need no further invitation. My mouth finds hers again, hungrier this time, one hand braced against the railing behind her while the other slides up her back, cradling her head. Her legs tighten around me as she arches into the kiss, her hands exploring my shoulders, my back, finally slipping beneath my shirt to trace patterns on bare skin.

“God, Elliot,” I groan as her cool fingers map the contours of my lower back. “The things I want to do with you...”

“Tell me,” she challenges, her breath warm against my ear as I press kisses along the column of her throat.

“I’ve thought about this for three years,” I confess, voice rough with desire as I press my lips to the sensitive hollow of her throat. “Three years of wondering if I’d ever get to touch you like this, if you’d ever look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Her breath catches, and I feel the shiver that runs through her. My hand slides up her thigh, bunching the fabric of her dress higher, fingertips tracing patterns on her bare skin.

“Every woman I’ve met since that Christmas party, I compared to you,” I continue, my words a heated whisper against her skin. “No one else made me forget how to breathe just by walking into a room. No one else haunted me like you did. Like you do.” I bring my lips to her ear, feeling the way she trembles against me. “I want to spend hours learning every sound you make when I touch you, every way your body responds to mine. I want to make up for every second of those three years I spent wanting you?—”

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