11
For the second day in a row, Kit woke up in an unfamiliar bed. The sound of dishes clinking, the smell of something tantalizing and sweet, lulled her eyes open, but she couldn’t make herself lift her head from the pillow.
Not from this perfectly bunched mound with its perfectly soft pillowcase in this perfectly dark room. And these sheets, the heavy duvet, so warm and comfortable.
Where in the world was she? What time was it?
She slid one arm free of the haven of her bed and reached for her phone on the nightstand. She tapped its screen—ten-thirty in the morning? She bolted up, the cogs of her memory finally churning.
The plane trip from Chicago to Boston late last night. The cab ride to Beckett’s apartment in the brownstone with the split foyer. His bedroom. His voice insisting she sleep in here and she too tired to argue.
Those must be some heavy curtains on the windows—not a slice of light filtered into the room. She switched on the nightstand lamp and gave the bedroom the once-over she’d been too exhausted to last night. Dark beige, almost-brown walls. Even darker furniture that matched the leather pinned headboard she leaned against now. Laundry hamper, closet door, a tie hanging over the doorknob.
Beckett wears ties. And inside the closet she’d probably find suit jackets and dress pants and nice shoes. Beckett wears ties and works in an office and argues cases in front of judges.
The same Beckett who climbed trees and drove hay wagons at home.
Except, it wasn’t his home. Not permanently, anyway.
She slid down against the pile of pillows in Beckett’s bed, wishing away the unwelcome thought that he had an entire life she knew nothing about.
A knock at the door made her blink, and before she could make her voice work, the door cracked open. Beckett’s head ducked in. He grinned. “Oh good, you’re awake.”
Yes, with her hair in tangles and the makeup she’d been too fatigued to wash off most likely smeared under her eyes now. “Barely.”
He trounced into the room and walked to the window. He pushed the curtains aside, and light thrust over her.
“Really, Beck?”
He was at the side of the bed in two long strides. “I figured it out.”
“Figured out what?” She forced herself to sit up.
“How you’re going to convince your dad to keep the orchard in the family.” He dropped onto the bed beside her, apparently oblivious to her bedhead and what she was wearing.
And, uh, not wearing. She pulled her sheet up over her shoulders. “Why are we talking about this now?”
“Because it’s a brilliant idea.” He leaned against the headboard with his legs stretched out, as if this was a completely normal locale for catching up on business. “Lucas won’t stand a chance.”
“I’m not at war with my brother, Beck.”
“I know that,” he drawled. “But you said he’s already got a buyer, right? You’re going to have to step up your game. For all you know, Lucas and his buyer are working up a deal right now.”
“Why are you trying to stress me out? I just woke up.”
“You won’t be stressed when you hear my plan. I’ll explain over breakfast.” He clasped her hand and pulled her up. “Don’t worry about what you look like. I’m still in my pajamas, too.” His pajamas apparently being a pair of track pants and a t-shirt. A far cry from her pink striped flannels and flimsy top. “Let’s go. I’m making pancakes.”
He still held her hand and tugged her toward the door. “Beck—”
He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Brush your teeth, wash your face, do whatever you need to. But don’t dawdle.” He started for the door but stopped halfway there. “And pajamas are mandatory.”
“Why?”
He grinned. “Because you’re cute.” And with that, he disappeared.
She groaned. And then giggled. And then had a heart attack when she saw her face in the mirror in his master bathroom.
Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom—still in pajamas as ordered, but hair parted down the middle and pulled into two braids, teeth brushed, and yesterday’s makeup scrubbed away.
Beckett’s first-floor apartment was a maze of small spaces. Across from his bedroom, an alcove carved into the corridor wall housed a small desk with a window looking out onto the tree-lined street. A twin alcove just a few feet down held a crammed-full bookcase. The hallway led into a circular den with a mahogany-hued leather couch and matching recliner with a reading lamp standing beside it. More bookshelves and a TV along one wall.
The den led into what was probably supposed to be the dining room—sans table. An arched opening on the opposite end spied on the kitchen.
She moved through each space with a studying eye, seeing signs of Beckett in every room—the pillow and sheets on the couch where he’d slept, the sweatshirt draped over a lone chair in the dining room. In the kitchen, the man himself.
The smell of pancake batter sizzling on a griddle beckoned her into the room, where Beckett held a spatula in one hand. “Finally. You took forever.”
“I took a few minutes.”
He looked eager. Way too awake. Way too . . .
Handsome. She’d been trying to ignore it for weeks, since that night in the orchard. But what was the point in denying it any longer? They weren’t kids anymore.
She was a woman, and he was a man. One whose once skinny arms were now rounded and strong. Whose shoulders stretched wider than she remembered and whose chest, as she’d discovered on Logan’s couch, made an awfully firm but comfortable pillow.
His gaze angled to hers, and she felt the flush climb all the way from her toes. “Beckett Walker’s famous pancakes.” She grappled for a lighthearted tone, but her voice refused to cooperate.
But if he’d noticed her ogling or her embarrassment, he let it go. “I’ve perfected the recipe some.”
She willed her nerves to settle. “And added blueberries, I see.”
“Had to run to the market for those. And for milk. And eggs. And basically everything.”
“You’ve been to the store already? When did you get up?”
“Not long ago.” He handed her a plate already prepared with two pancakes slathered in syrup. “Sorry I don’t have a table. Never got around to buying one. You could eat on the couch if you want.” He pulled a fork from a nearby drawer.
“Nah, I can eat standing. I need to hear about this plan of yours.”
“Good.” He flipped a pancake. “Here’s what I’m thinking: Remember how the mayor keeps talking about state tourism board folks who are coming to town in October?”
Remember? The man hadn’t stopped talking about it in weeks. She took a bite of a pancake, closed her eyes. “Oh my word.”
“I know they’re good, but focus.”
“I don’t know if I can. These are amazing, Beck.” She crammed in another bite. “But yes, I remember. Clearly Mayor Milt is angling for state dollars. I think he honestly thinks Maple Valley is on its way to becoming a true tourist trap. Iowa’s very own Coney Island or Atlantic City.”
“Well, I say we talk him into making the orchard the centerpiece of his pitch. Put on a charming evening event. Lights, music, moonlight tours, that kind of thing.” Beckett’s spatula scraped against the griddle as he slid off a perfectly golden pancake. “We pack the place with people, go all out for one night. And we get your dad there. He’ll see firsthand how important it is to the economy of the community.”
She paused halfway to another bite. “Forget for a minute that this only gives us a month to plan an event, an event I don’t even have money for—”
“That’s the beauty of it, Kit. We get the city to pay for it. They invest a few dollars in hopes of attracting additional state funds. Spend money to make money and all that. You’re just playing host.”
“But what makes you think my dad would come?” He’d missed countless birthdays and holidays. He hadn’t even come to her graduation ceremony. “Why would he show up for this?”
Beckett flipped another pancake before turning to look at her. “Maybe I can talk to him. I’m great at talking people into things, remember? I’ve got a social worker in Iowa and another in Illinois as proof.”
He joked, but she didn’t miss the flash of compassion in his eyes. He knew more than anyone the stages of hurt and anger she’d gone through over the years because of her father’s continual absence.
“Surely I can convince him to leave his office for one night.”
Kit lowered her gaze, voice soft, as she set down her plate. “You know, I don’t begrudge him his career. It’s just that . . . he wasn’t serving overseas most of the time he was gone. He was in D.C. He could’ve had us with him. We were already short one parent. I barely have any memories of my mom. Why couldn’t he have at least given me good memories of him?” And was it pitiful to still carry with her the hurt?
“I’m sorry, Kit. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him up.”
She traced one finger through the syrup on her plate. “No, I’m sorry. Here your dad is . . .”
Beckett looked away. He’d avoided every mention of his dad the past couple days. She didn’t know what to say. Or what to do. Or why she couldn’t, for the life of her, get ahold of the emotions whirling around inside her. She felt like a snow globe—tipped upside down and shaken, a flurry of nerves and worry and . . .
And an attraction so strong it scared her.
Because eventually Beckett would leave, too. She’d known it all along, of course, but it felt so much more real here. Yes, he was here to pack up his belongings, essentially bring closure to his life in Boston.
But he wouldn’t be unpacking those things in Maple Valley. He’d bring a few boxes home, but he’d already told her he’d rented a storage unit for the bulk of his stuff. Maple Valley was only a pit stop.
He turned off the burner, and when he looked at her again, it was as if he’d heard every one of her thoughts. A glimmer of urgency filled his eyes. “Let’s have fun today, Kit. Let’s go for a drive. I can take you to Beacon Hill or a beach or something.”
“But your office, your apartment.”
“We can stop by the office real quick and save the packing for tonight. We’ll stay up all night if we have to. Or I’ll just hire a packing company. Whatever. Let’s forget everything else. Just for today.”
“Okay.” Just for today.
Because it was beginning to feel like today was all they had.
Beckett should’ve waited to do this until the weekend.
And he shouldn’t have brought Kit along.
The elevator dinged as they reached the seventh floor of the downtown office building. “I should’ve just let you take the car and get an early start on the tourist-ing.” He waited until Kit stepped out of the elevator to follow. “There’s not that much in the office to pack up. I could’ve done it myself.”
Behind her, a wall of paneled glass windows peered in on the capacious offices of the Louder, Boyce & Shillinger Law Firm. Gray walls and birch furnishings overtop marbled flooring in swirls of white and copper. He could still remember his first gaping tour of the prestigious firm, picturing himself in one of the corner suites with the Boston skyline views along two windowed walls.
And to think, he’d come so close.
“Ashamed to be seen with me, are you?” Kit studied the aerial photo of the office building on the wall opposite the elevator doors as she teased.
And he studied her. Navy blue sweater with sleeves that reached only to her elbows. Jean skirt over brown leggings and boots. She’d left her hair down for once and it reached past her shoulders in unruly waves. “Not even close.”
She turned to see him watching her, and for at least the hundredth time since he’d whisked her away from Maple Valley, she smiled and blushed and gave him that look that honestly made him think maybe she saw him differently now.
And it—she—took his breath away.
“I wish I’d let you kiss me that night, Beckett Walker.”
“I just . . .” Talk. Words. Focus. “You could be doing something fun while I do this. There are these gardens I know you’d love. I mean, to me, they’re just a bunch of plants and flowers, but with your botany background—”
She shifted the jacket dangling over one arm as she interrupted. “I did way too much lone sightseeing in London. This time I’ve got you with me and you’re telling me to strike out on my own? I don’t think so, Beck.” She nodded her head toward the offices. “Besides, I want to see where you work.”
“Worked.” He plodded to the gray wood door and opened it for Kit. “We’ll make it snappy, though, so we can get on with the exploring.”
And maybe, if he was lucky, no one would notice them.
“Beckett Walker, in the flesh!”
No such luck. Elliott Boyce, Jr.’s, boisterous call turned nearly every head in the oblong open space at the front of the floor. And then he was standing in front of Beckett, his handshake quickly turning into a light hug. “How are you, old man?”
Beckett eyed Kit over Elliott’s shoulder. “Our birthdays are two days apart. I’ve got a whole forty-eight hours on him.”
Elliott stepped back. “Making you the old man and me the jaunty, spry youngster.” His gaze latched on to Kit. “Please tell me this is the ‘personal reason’ you ditched the firm for. I might not look it, but I’ve got a romantic streak like you wouldn’t believe.”
Ditched the firm? That was the quite the spin. Especially from the guy who’d carried out the firing.
Kit’s laugh was pure amusement. “Kit Danby.” She held out her palm for a handshake, but Elliott instead took hold of her fingers and lifted them to his lips.
Beckett felt his own jaw drop. “Did we suddenly step into an English parlor?”
Elliott’s gleaming grin was as shrewd as it was annoying. “Mock my impeccable manners all you want, Walker. I don’t think you’ll find the lady complaining.”
“Except the lady would kindly appreciate having her hand back.” Kit pulled her palm from Elliott’s grasp with a tone half scolding, half teasing.
And wholly curious, he could tell. Was she trying to picture him working here, in a polished suit just like Elliott’s, with an office and assistant and overcrowded calendar? Was it as discordant a scene in her mind as it felt in his just now?
Had it really been only six weeks ago he’d spent more hours each week amid this drone of ringing phones and clacking keys and closed-door conference rooms than his own home?
Elliott smoothed his lavender tie. “Honestly, I’m a little surprised to see you here after the way things went down. You should hear all the rumors flying around about what made you miss that Stanley Oil meeting. Mysterious illness. Criminal background. Secret lover.” His repeat glance to Kit wasn’t nearly swift enough. “Though, judging by your tan, I’d go with sudden inheritance and life of luxury on an island somewhere.”
“Actually, criminal background is a lot closer to the truth.”
“You’re not serious.” Elliott turned to Kit. “He’s not serious. Is he?”
Beckett strode past Elliott, toward his old office. “We’re just here to pack up my stuff,” he called over his shoulder. “Won’t take long and we’ll be out of your hair.”
He heard Kit’s double-step behind him until she caught up and laced her arm through his. “He’s a character,” she whispered.
“Good guy, but total goofball.”
And then Elliott’s voice again. “But your stuff isn’t in your office.”
Beckett paused, turned.
“That is, it’s not your office anymore.” Elliott slid his hand along the tall half-wall separating the open space of assistants’ desks from the row of office doors. “You’ve been gone for over a month, Walker. Your stuff was packed up weeks ago. It’s downstairs in one of the storage rooms. Didn’t I text you about that? Security can let you in. You’re lucky you showed up when you did. After sixty days, it all goes to the dumpster.”
Of course. Had he really thought he’d find his office just as he’d left it? That the firm wouldn’t replace him? Some lucky intern or recent law school grad had scored a quick climb up the ladder.
While his own prospects dwindled. He hadn’t even managed to get his interview rescheduled yet. Not that he hadn’t tried. He’d given up on rescheduling the Boston meeting and instead begun contacting law schools in Iowa. Army reps usually began meeting with prospective JAG officers while they were still in school.
Perhaps that’s why he was having so little luck. He was a non-traditional applicant. One who’d already missed an interview.
“Well, this is great. Saves us some time.” The cheer in Kit’s voice was over-much, which meant she sensed his plummeting mood. She released his arm to instead grasp his hand. “Let’s find the storage room and get on with our day. Nice to meet you, Elliott. Maybe you could have someone call down to the security desk to let them know we’re coming?”
And then she was leading him back the way they’d come, past the sprawling receptionist’s desk and out to the elevators. “Nice place, fancy offices, but way too stuffy for you, Beck. I don’t blame you for ditching it.” She punched the elevator’s down button.
“Didn’t ditch it. They fired me.”
“Maybe so, but look at it this way, you’re down to only forty hours of community service left. You never would’ve gotten that done so quickly if you’d still been working here and—”
The elevator dinged, the doors opened.
And Elliott Boyce, Sr., stepped out, a glare that could only be meant for Beckett darkening his expression. “Beckett.”
“Mr. Boyce.”
Kit’s fingers tightened around his as they traded places with the man.
“Someone let you know where to find your belongings, I trust.”
Beckett nodded from inside the elevator.
Boyce nodded from outside.
The elevator doors closed.
“Don’t do it, Beck.” Kit’s tone was soft, but firm.
“Do what?” The air inside the elevator was strained.
“Start second-guessing your whole life because of a dirty look from a dude who fired you. Besides, you have plans.”
“Only twenty percent of the people who apply to the JAG Corps get in, Kit. Most of them are younger than I am. And don’t have a criminal record.”
She laced her arm through his. “I meant your plans for a fun day today, silly goose. But if you must know, even if that percentage was lower, I’d have no doubt you’d get in. You’re Beckett Walker.”
He glanced down at her, drinking in the encouragement in her voice, her eyes. She looked at him as if she truly believed him capable of anything. It was a terrifying feeling.
It was a thrilling feeling.
And if she kept looking at him like that, kept smiling, if she kept her arm tucked through his, and if the elevator door didn’t open soon . . . well, he’d have to give in, that’s all. Find out if she’d really meant what she said the other night on the couch.
“I should’ve let you kiss me . . .”
The elevator door opened. Kit let go of his arm. “Come on, let’s go get your stuff.”
“Forget it.”
“But—”
He reached for her hand. “It’s nothing but a few pens and a stapler and an employee handbook I’ll never look at again. Let’s go.”
A tingling salt-tinged breeze whipped through Kit’s hair as Beckett steered his old convertible along the road that traced the rocky shore north of Boston. Cold huddled in the seaside air underneath a sky laced with frothy clouds.
“I’m numb and my hair’s going to be so knotted after this I’ll need to shave it all off.”
Beckett’s wind-ruddied cheeks lifted with his smile. “You’re the one who insisted we drive with the top down.”
“Clearly not my best idea ever.” She had to yell to be heard above the engine, the tires whirring over pavement, the sound of the Atlantic Ocean crashing into the coast.
She’d known part of the reason they’d come to Boston was to pick up Beckett’s car. It just hadn’t clicked until she saw it that it was this car—the classic, sleek Cadillac, the one his mom had driven as a teenager and then had refused to sell years later. It used to sit in the Walkers’ garage, covered by a heavy gray cloth. But the year Beckett turned fifteen, Flora Walker had given him the car as a birthday gift. Mother and son had spent a whole year fixing it up before Beckett got his driver’s license.
A thousand happy memories had poured in when she first saw it in Beckett’s garage this morning—coasting Maple Valley’s downtown on hot summer nights, laying on the hood and looking at the stars in Painter’s Field, sitting on a stool in the Walkers’ driveway while Beckett tinkered with the engine and told her about the trip down the Pacific Coast Highway he and his mom would take eventually.
He’d loved to talk about that trip—a trip they never got to take.
Windy waves of cold rolled over her. This morning felt like forever ago after such a sublime day of wandering Boston. They’d spent most of their time in the Beacon Hill district—roamed the narrow brick sidewalks lined by historic rowhouses and stood at the metal gates in front of the Massachusetts State House.
Now they were heading north to Gloucester and Beckett’s favorite slice of Massachusetts beach. Salt Island, worth the forty-minute drive, he’d assured.
Honestly, he could’ve driven her anywhere and she would’ve gladly settled in for the ride. Or he could’ve taken her back to his apartment for nothing more than an evening of packing boxes and she’d have been happy.
Because he was there.
“I need one of those head scarves like Grace Kelly always wore in old movies whenever she was driving.” Surely the misty air had long since faded her makeup, and of course, her hair was a mess. She’d traded in her nice jacket hours ago for a thicker fleece zip-up she’d found in Beckett’s back seat.
Beckett only laughed and turned the car onto a twisty side road and past a sign pointing to public parking. Within minutes, he paid a ridiculous amount of money and tucked the car into one of several open spaces.
“Usually you’re lucky if you can park around here, but with it being so chilly tonight . . .” He stopped. “Are you sure you’re not going to freeze? We can go find a restaurant or something instead.”
“No, I want to see this place. You said this is where you came to study before exams, where you brought your family the last time they came to visit.” Where he’d made the decision to apply to the JAG Corps. He’d told her more about it the other night. How he’d come out to the shore on a Sunday after an eighty-hour workweek. Prayed for the first time in months and felt a peace he didn’t understand.
So similar to her own feelings these last weeks at home, in the orchard—all the purpose and belonging and direction she’d been missing for so long. God’s whisper in her soul, just like Grandma said. It had echoed into every corner of her being.
But where her awakening had grown roots, deep and embracing, Beckett’s had set him free—like the wind blowing a leaf from its branch.
Don’t think about that today. Tomorrow she’d return to reality. Today she was a leaf, too, plucked from her perch and carefree. Following the tug of the breeze and the whim of her best friend.
“When the tide’s lower you can actually walk on a sandbar out to the island,” Beckett was saying now. The sound of their footsteps over the wooden walkway’s weathered boards was lost in the wind scraping over rippling coast. On the opposite end of the bridge, white sand splayed over the tiny island.
When she stepped off the walkway, her boots sank into the sand, and Beckett’s grip tightened. Cobalt water lapped at the shore as he led her to the far end of the island, past only a couple other clusters of people.
Soon Beckett was spreading the blanket and they were settling onto the soft ground. She burrowed into the high neck of his fleece jacket, hands hidden inside its overly long sleeves. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the coat along with the saltiness of the sea air.
“You going to be warm enough?”
“Plenty.” As long as he didn’t mind her huddling so close to him.
Which apparently he didn’t. Because he reached behind them to the leftover length of blanket and pulled one corner over her shoulders, the other over his.
God, if you could just let tonight last for the rest of forever, I’d be okay with that.
The prayer tripped through her mind as Beckett watched her watch the ocean—she could feel it, the heat of his stare, even as she drank in the horizon. It’d become so familiar in just these past ten or eleven hours. As if some invisible barrier that used to stand between them had finally gone and collapsed.
“So how does it compare?” His breath feathered over her face.
“Huh?”
“You’ve never been to the Atlantic coast before, but you were telling me last week about that trip to Spain you took a couple years ago. The beach along the Mediterranean.”
“Right. Costa del Sol.” She’d stayed in a flat along a sloping seaside, the walk from the white stucco balcony with the orange tiled flooring consisting of more than two hundred steps to get down to the actual shore. “Well, I was there in March, so it wasn’t warm at all. But I put on my swimsuit anyway and tried wading into the water. It was this gorgeous shade of turquoise that tumbled under a moody wind. The sea was so forceful that I was barely in knee-deep before it knocked me over.”
“Good thing you took all those swimming lessons.”
“I’m serious, Beck. I could barely stand up. Every time I tried, waves just kept knocking me back down. I was choking on saltwater while laughing my head off.”
“I think I would’ve liked to see that.”
“Pretty sure I swallowed a gallon of water. And it was so cold my fingers and toes were blue. Probably my lips, too.”
His glance dropped to her mouth and then just as quickly away. “And?”
She closed her eyes around the memory. “And I can still remember lying in bed that night with the windows open. The room was freezing, but it was worth it to hear the waves.”
“You’re a good storyteller, Kit, you know that?” A drowsy quiet curled in the air around them. Beckett’s midnight eyes were fastened on the water, something distant and contemplative in his gaze. The wind ruffled his hair, and minutes passed before he spoke again. “It’s too bad we weren’t on speaking terms when you were abroad. I could’ve demanded you send me postcards. I’d like to go to Europe someday.”
Maybe the Army would send him there. Maybe he’d send her postcards.
The unwelcome thought propelled her to her feet.
“What?” Beckett lifted his eyes.
“Let’s go wading.”
“It’s going to be freezing, Kit.”
“I know, but if I can survive the Mediterranean in March, I can endure the Atlantic in September.” She bent over to unlace and yank off her boots, movement almost frantic. Off came her socks, and she rolled up her leggings.
Beckett just sat there, staring.
“Don’t wimp out on me, Beck.”
His inflated sigh gave way to obedience. He rose and kicked off his own shoes while she tested the water. A squeal pitched from her the second it touched her toes.
“Told you!” Beckett chirped, still safely ensconced in sand.
Just for that, she waded deeper, icy water licking up her ankles and the chill climbing her spine. “It’s refreshing.” Her teeth chattered through the lie.
Beckett laughed and followed her in, his own gasp colliding with the whoosh of the wind. “If I get frostbite and my toes fall off—”
“Stop whining.” She reached her fingers into the foamy blue and sent a splash his way.
Which, of course, was a mistake. Because, of course, he splashed back.
Within seconds she was half-doused and wholly frozen, shrieking and laughing and on her way to losing her footing.
If not for Beckett’s darting arms.
He caught her before she could fall, and she landed against his chest.
And yet, something told her she was far from safe. “Don’t you dare push me all the way in. Don’t you dare.” She yelped the command.
“I’m not going to push you in.”
But his impish grin and baritone laughter convinced her that was exactly what he was going to do. Which was why she clasped her hands together around his neck. “I’m not letting go. You push me in and you’re coming down with me.”
Her hair whipped around her head, wet strands matting to her face. She couldn’t feel her toes, couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t stop laughing . . .
Until he stopped.
Stilled.
Arms holding her in place and eyes locked on hers. “You said you wished you’d let me kiss you that night.”
The shiver raced through her. “Y-you heard that?”
He lifted his hand to brush her hair from her face, one finger trailing over her cheek as he tucked it behind her ear.
“Beck.” Her voice was a whisper even as her heart roared. She loosened her arms from around his neck, but they only made it as far down as his chest. “You’re going to leave. You’re going to spend six weeks at Fort Benning in Georgia learning leadership skills and military tactics.”
“You read up on it?”
“Then after that, you’ll go to Charlottesville for ten and a half weeks of officer’s training.” She should push away from him, make her numb feet move. But it was as if the sandy floor beneath her held her in place. “You’re going to leave,” she said again. She’d promised herself not to think about it, but it was a promise she couldn’t keep.
“I haven’t left yet.” His soft words sifted over her cheeks as his fingers tipped her chin.
And finally, as he closed the last breath of space between then, lowered his lips to hers, she stopped fighting. Her hands slid around his neck once more as he kissed her once and then again.
Both his arms crushed her to him as a third kiss intensified. And there was nothing left to do but lose herself in his hold.