Page 43 of Romance and Peppermint Lattes
“Oh, sure, the same way you’d care about an annoying younger sister. Believe me, Nolan, your message came throughloud and clear. I’m not your type. Fine, I can accept that, because you’re not my type, either.” She didn’t really think she had a type, but it sounded philosophical and went a long way toward salving her badly bruised ego. Nolan couldn’t have made his views toward her any plainer had he rented a billboard. He’d even said he’d taken one look at her and immediately thought, “Here comes trouble.”
She’d never been more attracted to a man in her life, and here she was, standing in front of him lying through her teeth rather than admit how she truly felt.
“So I’m not your type, either?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
Maryanne’s heartbeat quickened. He studied her as intently as she studied him. He gazed at her mouth, then slipped his hand behind her neck and slowly, so very slowly, lowered his lips to hers.
He paused, their mouths a scant inch apart. He seemed to be waiting for her to pull away, withdraw from him. Everything inside her told her to do exactly that. He was only trying to humiliate her, wasn’t he? Trying to prove how powerful her attraction to him was, how easily he could bend her will to his own.
And she was letting him.
Her heart was beating so furiously her body seemed to rock with the sheer force of it. Every throb seemed to drive her directly into his arms, right where she longed to be. She placed her palms against his chest and sighed as his mouth met hers. The touch of his lips felt warm and soft. And right.
His hand cradled her neck while his lips continued to move over hers in the gentlest explorations, as though he feared she was too delicate to kiss the way he wanted.
Gradually his hands slipped to her shoulders. He drew a ragged breath, then put his head back as he stared up at the ceiling. He exhaled slowly, deliberately.
It took all the restraint Maryanne possessed not to ask him why he was stopping. She wanted these incredible sensations to continue. She longed to explore the feelings his kiss produced and the complex responses she experienced deep within her body. Her pulse hammered erratically as she tried to control her breathing.
“Okay, now we’ve got that settled, I’ll leave.” He backed away from her.
“Got what settled?” she asked swiftly, then realized she was only making a bigger fool of herself. Naturally he was talking about the reason for this impromptu visit, which had been her health. Hadn’t it? “Oh, I see.”
“I don’t think you do,” Nolan said enigmatically. He turned and walked away.
ChapterEight
“Whose turn next?” Maryanne asked. She and her two friends were sitting in the middle of her living room floor, having a “pity party.”
“I will,” Carol Riverside volunteered eagerly. She ceremonially plucked a tissue from the box that rested in the center of their small circle, next to the lit candle. Their second large bottle of cheap wine was nearly empty, and the three of them were feeling no pain.
“For years I’ve wanted to write a newspaper column of my own,” Carol said, squaring her shoulders and hauling in a huge breath. “But it’s not what I thought it’d be like. I ran out of ideas for things to write about after the first week.”
“Ah,” Maryanne sighed sympathetically.
“Ah,” Barbara echoed.
“That’s not all,” Carol said sadly. “I never knew the world was so full of critics. No one seems to agree with me. I—I didn’t know Seattle had so many cantankerous readers. I try, but it’s impossible to make everyone happy. What happens is that some of the people like me some of the time and all therest hate everything I write.” She glanced up. “Except the two of you, of course.”
Maryanne nodded her head so hard she nearly toppled over. She spread her hands out at either side in an effort to maintain her balance. The wine made her yawn loudly.
Apparently in real distress, Carol dabbed at her eyes. “Being a columnist is hard work and nothing like I’d always dreamed.” The edges of her mouth turned downward. “I don’t even like writing anymore,” she sobbed.
“Isn’t that a pity!” Maryanne cried, ritually tossing her tissue into the center of the circle. Barbara followed suit, and then they both patted Carol gently on the back.
Carol brightened once she’d finished. “I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you. You and Betty are my very best friends in the whole world,” she announced.
“Barbara,” Maryanne corrected. “Your very best friend’s name is Barbara.”
The three of them looked at each other and burst into gales of laughter. Maryanne hushed them by waving her hands. “Stop! We can’t allow ourselves to become giddy. A pity party doesn’t work if all we do is laugh. We’ve got to remember this is sad and serious business.”
“Sad and serious,” Barbara agreed, sobering. She grabbed a fresh tissue and clutched it in her hand, waiting for the others to share their sorrows and give her a reason to cry.
“Whose idea was the wine?” Maryanne wanted to know, taking a quick sip.
Carol blushed. “I thought it would be less fattening than the chocolate ice-cream bars you planned to serve.”
“Hey,” Barbara said, narrowing her eyes at Maryanne. “You haven’t said anything about your problem.”
