Page 72 of The Fall Back Plan
Now, barely a month into all this, I see glimpses of what comes next. There’s always Ry, Mary Louise, Tina, and Precious. There’s Bonnie and the new staff coming on. There’s laughing with Sophie, talking with Mrs. Herring, hot cups of Cataloochee coffee. And always Lucas and Brooklyn.
What isn’t in this peek at the near future is the little black rain cloud of Sloane Oakley-Hunsaker dampening all the good vibes.
“I’m taking any chance to be done with this, Lucas. Please be on my side.” It’s so hard to say those words, and I try not to show it.
“I am. One hundred percent.” He pushes the note back across the desk toward me. “I’m going with you. I’ll stay out of sight, but I’ll be watching. You’ll keep your cell phone with you and leave it on an open call so I can hear what’s happening. Can you agree to that?”
“Yes.” I smile and it wobbles, and the end of my nose is stinging. Am I going to cry? Why would I cry? This makes no sense. I didn’t cry when Lucas told me about the accusations in the first place. Why now?
I get up from the chair, heading for the door as fast as possible. If I’m going to cry, I’m doing it where no one can see me, since I wouldn’t be able to explain my tears to anyone. “I’ll meet you back here at 7:30?”
He’s getting up to walk around his desk, and I grab the handle before he can get to me. “Okay, thanks, bye.” I dart out and close it behind me. I stand there for a couple of seconds, drawing a steadying breath as I survey the open office space and the different employees working at desks, some in uniform, some not.
Why would I run away from Lucas?
I turn and open the door again, pushing it as Lucas pulls, and I nearly fall into him. He steps back and steadies me as I lose my balance.
“Whoa, you okay?”
I nod and close the door behind me, leaning against it. Lucas is close enough for me to graze my finger over the star on his chest, and I want to. Badly. He’s studying me with a look of concern, like he’s trying to read my face and figure out what to do next.
He’s right that I’ve lost my common sense. It’s the only thing that explains what happens next, as I reach out and hook my fingers beneath the hems on each of his short sleeves to pull him toward me. His eyes widen right as I close mine, and I press my lips to his.
It’s a soft touch. I am not a kiss-first woman, or I never have been until Lucas Cole. But I’m a kiss-first woman now, and after a split second of stillness from him—barely the time it takes to catch a breath—the sheriff of Harvest Hollow makes very sure I don’t regret it.
His hands come up to cradle my head as he kisses me back, his fingers sure and warm as he slides them behind my neck, his thumbs feathering against my jaw. He brushes his lips against mine, once, twice, until I make a soft, impatient sound, and feel his mouth curve into a smile.
Then he’s kissing me, really kissing me, like he’s thought for days—weeks—about how he wants to do this, his lips warm and insistent. My hands drift from his ridiculous biceps to his chest, and though his shirts are never tight, they’re so well fitted that I can’t even grab a fistful, but only slide my fingers between the second and third button to pull him closer.
It tips him off-balance and one of his hands flies up to brace against the door beside my head, and oh my stars,whydoes that make me want to kiss him even more? But it does, and I do.
Quiet weaves around us, a cottony, pillowy silence where I’m wrapped up in the warmth of Lucas, everything else falling away except the sound of my own heartbeat pulsing in my ears, the feel of his drumming against the backs of my fingers as I hold him there.
A shrill desk phone right outside his office pierces the quiet, and the spell breaks.
I let go of his shirt and push lightly. His head comes up to meet my eyes, his glinting with something I can’t name. Surprise? Confusion? He blinks, like he’s emerging from a daydream.
“Sorry.” His voice is gruff but quiet.
“You didn’t do anything.” When his eyes flash, I correct myself. “You did good, I mean. That was . . . uh, good. You’re very . . .” I am babbling. I donotbabble.
“Good?” he finishes.
“Very good. If we’re being specific.”
He’s taken a step back, but he’s still close enough to almost feel his body heat. “I appreciate your evaluation. Want to tell me what that was?”
“No.” I wince when his eyebrows go up. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you.”
He gives me a long look followed by a short nod. “Fair enough.”
He shifts again to make room for me to leave.
I turn and put my hand on the doorknob when he stops me with a question.
“Do you regret it?”
I rest my head against the door, squeezing my eyes shut. Do I? Not at the moment. But will I, when it sinks in what I—we—just did? “I don’t know.”
