“Having fun, kids?”
“Yes!” I squawked. It was what’s-her-name’s … the bride. Laura. Her dad. Whoever. My breath shook as I inhaled, and Ian glanced at me, the slightest smile in his eyes.
“Great. Glad you’re doing well, son.” Laura’s father slapped Ian on the back, then walked away.
Ian and I looked at each other. I swallowed. “Would you like to leave, Callie?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, my voice unsteady. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” he answered, and again, the old knees threatened to give way.
Of course, we had to say goodbye to the happy couple. “I hope we see you soon,” Laura said, giving him a hug. She hugged me, too. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered. “You’re good for him.”
“Well,” I said, blushing furiously. “Um … good luck with everything.”
Ian didn’t hold my hand on the way to the car, simply opened the car door for me. As we pulled away from the reception, the skies opened and rain pounded down on the roof of the car. My well of snappy one-liners seemed to dry up. I didn’t look at Ian, and he didn’t talk. The only sound was the pattering rain, the hissing of the tires through the wet streets, and the hard, fast rhythm of the wipers.
The rain had grown heavier by the time we drove back into Montpelier. Ian pulled into the hotel parking lot, found a space, then turned off the ignition. For a second, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “I’m very glad that’s over,” he said.
“I’ll bet,” I murmured, looking at him for the first time in half an hour.
He turned his head and looked at me. “You were a wonderful date, Callie,” he said, and with that, he leaned over and kissed me.
For a minute, I didn’t move … the shock was so great that I just sat frozen. Then the reality of his mouth on mine sank in … warm and gentle and rather perfect, really. I sighed, and his hand came up to cup the back of my head, his fingers sliding through my hair, and I realized I was already gripping his lapels. I shifted so I could get closer. Then the kiss deepened, and God, he tasted so good, and his mouth felt unbelievable. I slid my hands under his jacket, up along the solid muscles of his back, then shifted, one foot pushing against the car door so I could get closer to him, to that solid heat. He seemed absolutely focused on kissing me, just that, just this lovely, long, hot kiss, and man, he knew what he was doing. I felt myself softening, melting against him, and Ian was the opposite, hard and, oh, just hard and hot and safe. A low sound came from deep in his throat, and a rush of deep satisfaction flooded through me … he did like me, he did want me. His mouth moved to the base of my neck, and my hands fisted in his shirt, practically tearing it.
Then a car door slammed, and I jumped back a little. The emergency brake (or something … oh, no, it was the brake) was pressing into my thigh, as I’d basically crawled on top of Ian and was now sprawled awkwardly across the seat and my driver. The rain pounded on the car, and the windows were already steamy … and let me tell you, they weren’t the only ones.
Ian was breathing hard, I noticed, and his eyes were half-closed as he looked at me. He smiled, a slow, satisfied smile, and I swallowed and bit my lip. My hands were on his chest … his broad, solid chest, and I could feel his heart thudding away, gratifyingly fast.
“Want to go inside?” he whispered, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.
I nodded, apparently unable to speak.
He gently pushed me back to my side of the car, as I was also apparently unable to move. My legs were wonderfully weak and trembling, and my skin felt feverish. Ian opened his door and got out, the rain instantly soaking him. He came around to my side, opened the door, then bent down.
“Your shoes will drown,” he said, and with that, he scooped me up in his arms. The cold rain was a shock, and I yelped a little. Ian smiled, closed the door with his foot and carried me … carried me toward the hotel, and it was so crazy romantic that I couldn’t quite believe it was happening to me. My heart felt as light and happy as a dandelion seed carried on the breeze.
“Do you like hauling women off to your lair, Ian?” I asked above the rush of the rain. “Makes you feel manly, does it?”
“Makes me feel hernia, anyway,” he said, trying not to smile. Or grunt, perhaps. “And I’m carrying you to the lobby. Not necessarily my lair.”
“Drat,” I said.
He laughed. I melted.
Alas, we were at the front door, which a bellhop thoughtfully opened. Ian set me down just inside the lobby, then ran a hand through his wet hair. I was soaked as well, dark splotches on my dress, the soggy silk clinging to my legs. He was still smiling, and man, what a difference … from Russian assassin to, I don’t know … dessert. There were wonderful crinkles around his eyes, and he didn’t have dimples so much as these lines that slashed his cheeks, and he looked so happy, so sweet in his wet tuxedo that I’d have married him in an instant, should a justice of the peace have happened to conveniently walk by.
I pushed my wet hair behind my ears. I had a good feeling about this. Like I was about to get lucky, oh yeah. “Hope I didn’t rupture any of your disks,” I said. Okay, not the best come-on line, but I was still a little breathless.
From being carried. I did mention that he carried me, didn’t I?
“No, no. You can’t be any heavier than the DeCarlos’ bull mastiff, and I have to lift him up all the time.” His grin widened.
“Ian, stop. I’m blushing.”
He looked at me. At my mouth. And so here it came. That moment where we’d actually have to discuss going to his room. Or mine. If we were going to do something about that kiss in the car. As the good Lord knew, I sure as heck wanted to. And as of tonight, the feelings finally seemed mutual.
“Callie?”
My head whipped around, my mouth fell open.
It was Charles deVeers. Muriel’s father.
“Mr. deVeers!” I blurted.
“Now, now, you said you’d call me Charles,” he said, coming over and giving me a bear hug. “What are you doing here, sweetheart? Did Muriel call you?”
My mouth opened and closed a few times before actual words emerged. “I … I—uh, Charles, this is Ian McFarland. We were at a wedding.”
The men shook hands. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Charles asked. “On the hike. You’re Callie’s boyfriend, right?”
Ian looked at me. Didn’t say anything.
“Uh … no,” I stammered. “We’re … we’re just friends.”
Though Ian had been calling me that all night—and though being his friend was something of an honor—the word suddenly seemed very … meager. Ian’s gaze shifted away from me.
“So … um, what are you doing here, Charles?” I asked.
“Well, this is the best hotel around, according to your boss. I stayed here last time, too.”
“It’s a great hotel,” I said faintly. “Definitely. We did an ad campaign a few …” My voice trailed off.
Now, granted, Vermont is a tiny state with very few people, and cities—real cities, with things like hotels—are few and far between. Georgebury only boasted a couple of bed-and-breakfast