Page 13 of 40 and Flirting (with Disaster)
It had been so long.
Jamie drew back, dived in for another kiss, then drew back again. His breath was heavy as he leaned his forehead against hers. Only then did she realize his hands were gripping her hips much like hers were grasping him, and she basked in his sure hold.
“Jamie.” Was that really her voice, all breathless and husky?
“Iris.” Jamie’s voice was guttural. He tipped his head up, his lips settling against her forehead. “I’ve been thinking about that for a long time.”
Alarm zinged through her. “You have?”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her. “Damn right I have.”
She leaned back, daring to look him in the eyes, to stroke her palms over his ribs and up his muscular chest. She shouldn’t admit what she was thinking, shouldn’t give him any more ammunition to use against her, and still the words, “I’ve thought about it too,” slipped out. She had, mostly in moments that caught her unaware. Her dreams especially. Jamie had featured in more than one dream that had left her feeling uncertain and achy. Though she had seen him before then, he had been intrinsically linked to the end of her marriage by his presence at their anniversary dinner. It had somehow seemed wrong to also want him sexually, but she did want him.
That sense of vulnerability surged again. Touching him, wanting him bared her in a way she didn’t like. The feeling that she was teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to fall, about to expose herself to the pain that could come with emotion, with opening herself up to another human being, had her drawing back.
She wasn’t ready. She didn’t think she’d ever be ready.
Pulling her arms away seemed to take tremendous effort—her hands wanted to keep hold of the stability and warmth they’d found in Jamie’s body, but for her sanity, she had to deny them. She had to deny him.
“Iris?”
She clutched her arms around herself instead and looked up at this handsome man who made her feel things she no longer felt safe feeling. “Hmm?”
He reached for her, and she flinched. She couldn’t help it.
He dropped his hand quickly. “Are you all right?”
“O-of course.” She glanced up the street, grateful to see Scarlett and Claire were not too far ahead. “We’d better catch up.”
Jamie overtook her quickly. “What’s going through that lovely head of yours?”
His voice sounded concerned. Jamie was an intelligent man, that much she knew. And he seemed to know his way around a woman’s brain; he could probably read all the sudden doubts and worries, conjectures and condemnations flooding her mind.
“Everything.” An uncomfortable laugh escaped. “Always. I’m a chronic overthinker.”
“That fits.”
She skidded to a stop. “How does that fit?” As if she didn’t know.
Jamie reached for her again, only this time she was too intent on his words. He pulled her back against him. “Most intelligent women are overthinkers. Comes with the territory. Taking everything on yourself. Carrying all the baggage; shouldering all the emotional labor.”
Jamie using the phrase emotional labor impressed her; most men in their generation didn’t believe such a thing existed, much less bother to understand how it affected the female half of the species. The modern world understood so much more about women and the roles they had been burdened with throughout history, but men her age…well, there was more than one reason she and Kirk had grown apart. To say her thinking had become more liberal as the years passed might be an understatement.
His warmth was seducing her as much as his words, and she couldn’t allow that. “You’re right; that does fit,” she agreed, continuing up the sidewalk.
Jamie didn’t protest, just fell in step beside her. They walked in silence another block. Finally he brought her to a stop with a gentle hand on her elbow. “Iris, you know there’s nothing to worry about here.”
“There’s not?” There definitely was. There was too much to worry about—which was why she was desperate to escape.
“No.”
He cupped her cheek, and she couldn’t stop herself from nuzzling into the touch. She’d forgotten how good touch could feel. Her daughter and son hugged her, and the younger children at the library gave her the occasional kiss on the cheek or hug or held her hand with their sticky little fingers. But it wasn’t the same as male-female contact. She’d missed it more than she’d realized.
Danger, danger, Will Robinson!
She stepped back from his touch. “Jamie, I—” She stopped, swallowed hard, then forced herself to make eye contact. “I’m not ready for this. I thought maybe I was”—no, you just couldn’t resist temptation—“but I’m not. I’m so not.” A deep breath steadied her, gave her the courage to tell him, “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for this. I’m sorry.”
Without waiting for a response, she hurried up the sidewalk, catching up to Scarlett and Claire at the next cross street. She didn’t look at Jamie when he arrived at her side, or for the rest of the walk to the hotel. She avoided standing next to him in the elevator, and when they exited on their floor, she didn’t look back to see if he followed, but follow he did. He said good night to Scarlett with a brief brush of his lips across her cheek—Iris fought a surge of jealousy at the innocent touch—then did the same with Claire before turning to her. Her friends withdrew hastily through the door.
