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“There won’t be any need for that. The fact that I’ll know, and you’ll know, and I’ll know that you know I know—that’s all the gloating I’ll need.”

“Well, aren’t you the gentleman.”

Tate leveled a look at her over the rim of his glass. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Okay, there was
definitely
something in his tone that time, and it raised the temperature in the room about ten degrees. And that smile . . .
Damn.
There was no way she was imagining it, but that didn’t mean she knew how to process it, either.

It doesn’t matter, though
, she reminded herself,
because . . .

That thought screeched to a halt when Tate’s fingers stroked gently down her arm. “You look exhausted,” he said. “Maybe you should call it a night.”

The disconnect confused her. A touch at the same time he was putting an end to the evening? Was this a test of some sort? If she said she wasn’t tired, was she agreeing to something? Or was she misconstruing a friendly, compassionate touch? Was he just genuinely worried about her?

She was enjoying herself and didn’t necessarily
want
to leave, and Tate’s face wasn’t giving her any clues, so . . .

Either way, going home was probably her best bet. Maybe once she had a good night’s sleep behind her, she’d be able to make sense of it. “Yeah, you’re right.” She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “I also want to check on Nigel.”

Tate stood, too, and once again she felt very
aware
of him. His size. His smell. She’d gotten so comfortable over the last couple of hours that she’d forgotten, but that touch . . . The situation had changed, and so had
her focus. “I promise you,” he said, “Nigel’s fine. But I know you want to check on him all the same.”

Mercy, his
eyes
.

Yeah, she needed to go.
Now.

She nearly tripped over her feet on her way to the door. “Thanks again for last night.”

He followed her. “Thanks again for tonight.”

Grabbing her bag with one hand, she reached for the door with the other, landing on the knob at the same moment Tate’s hand did. Stepping back quickly, she trod on his foot, stumbling sideways into him.

Sweet Mary, mother of God.
She could feel her cheeks burning.

Chuckling, Tate held her by the shoulders, steadying her on her feet. “Do you think you can get home on your own?”

“Yes. I’m sure of it. I’m obviously just really tired.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I kept you up even longer, but I appreciate dinner and the company.”

“It was the least I could do.”
That sounded rude.
“And I enjoyed it, too.”

Tate was still holding her, but loosely, so even the tiniest step back would have broken the contact. But his hands were large and warm and felt nice, even if this whole situation was causing her insides to churn in conflicting and confusing ways.

Then she made the mistake of looking up to meet his eyes. So blue and so kind and so . . .
Oh.
That heat was new. It paralyzed her, and everything slipped into slow motion.

Tate was going to kiss her.
That one thought ran through her brain on repeat, and although one small rational part of her knew it was a bad idea, the rest of her wanted him to.
Badly.

She was still surprised when he did. His lips were warm and gentle, offering just enough pressure to
promise, but not demand. She wanted to melt into it, into
him
, and though she knew she shouldn’t, she kissed him back, rising up onto her tiptoes to extend the moment.

His fingers tightened around her shoulders, and she let her tongue sneak out for one quick, fleeting taste of him, right before her brain kicked back in, causing her to rock back onto her heels and put some distance between them. Tate’s mouth followed hers, sucking gently on her bottom lip for one second longer—just enough to stoke the embers in her belly into a glow—before letting her go.

Damn.

But it was the shy half smile Tate gave her that slayed her, mixing sweet, gooey feelings with hot, long-repressed need. It was too much. “Good night, Tate.”

“Good night, Molly. Sleep well.”

The fact that it was still light outside made the “Good night. Sleep well” a little ridiculous-sounding, but the daylight burned off the magic and made what had just happened seem even more surreal.

And it sucked.

She wanted to barge right back in and kiss Tate until she couldn’t breathe, get up close and familiar with the planes and angles of his chest, learn the taste of his skin . . .

But she couldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to.

She had too much to lose, and good Lord, she had no idea how she could possibly explain it all to Tate. No matter what the people back home in Fuller thought, she did still know the difference between right and wrong, and this was pretty much the textbook definition of “wrong
.”

It just felt really right.

Surely she’d earned that kiss. She
deserved
an
amazing kiss from an incredible guy. She could give herself a little while to just enjoy the moment and worry about the possible repercussions later.

It wasn’t as if she could let it go any further, so she might as well enjoy what she could.

She’d focus on that. Just for a little while.

Tate had kissed her.

And she’d liked it.

A lot.

•   •   •

It had been three days since Tate kissed Molly. He hadn’t really planned to do it quite like that, but the opportunity had presented itself and he didn’t regret it.

Well, maybe it hadn’t been his smoothest move ever, but Molly hadn’t slapped him, either.

And as far as kisses went, that one had been pretty damn nice. It had been a sweet, nearly G-rated kiss, the kind you felt in the heart, but the effect on him had been more NC-17 and he’d felt it all over.

It had taken more control than he’d have said he possessed to let her walk out of there. Hell, if she only knew just how hard it had been and how much he’d wanted to lock the door instead, she’d be filing a restraining order on him just to be safe.

So as much as it was killing him, he’d let the last few days pass without bringing up that kiss, trying to give her time to process it without being all stalkerish. He’d seen her a couple of times, but only in passing. She’d called him twice, but both calls were quick and focused entirely on the Children’s Fair, which was now less than a week away.

Since everyone in town was really busy getting ready for the weekend events, he didn’t really take her distance
too
personally. Plus, Helena’s warning that Molly had “issues” and probably a bad relationship behind
her meant he was trekking into possibly dangerous territory without a map. It would behoove him to be cautious. Hell, she’d been saddled with a huge project and had dealt with a serious health scare with a pet. That alone was enough to be dealing with at the moment. She didn’t need a lot of pressure from some guy right now just because he’d made a pass.

But those three days had been a trial to his patience, and on day four he had none left. He wanted to see her, maybe even take her to dinner—and definitely kiss her again—so he went to Latte Dah after work.

A large group seemed to be having a meeting of some sort in one corner, and a smaller group of teenagers had squared off in the other, disturbing the general tranquility that normally reigned in Latte Dah. Sam was behind the counter, working the cappuccino machine like a pro. At first, he thought Molly wasn’t there, but then he saw her, over at one of the smaller tables with Helena, both of them frowning and gesticulating as they spoke.

Helena’s presence here gave him pause. He had to assume Molly hadn’t said anything to her about that kiss, simply because he would know if Helena knew. There was no way she’d let that pass without comment.

But he couldn’t really talk to Molly—much less ask her out—if Helena was listening in.

On the other hand, if Molly was feeling awkward about that kiss, Helena might give them a bit of a buffer, letting her ease into the idea. And regardless of anything else, he’d at least get to talk to her for a few minutes, allowing him to get a reading on the situation.

“I would not go over there if I were you,” Sam warned from behind him as he headed in their direction.

He turned to look at his sister. “Why?”

“Because they are taking turns ranting and freaking out.”

Sighing, he sat at the counter. “Memorial Day stuff?”

Sam nodded.

“I do not understand them. They’re capable, competent adults organizing a couple of community events. No one’s asked them to build a rocket or perform brain surgery, but to listen to them, you’d think dozens of innocent lives hung in the balance.”

“Don’t be such an ignorant ass.”

“I beg your pardon, Samantha Harris?”

“You’re being very dense. Do you honestly think that if Helena screws up that bake sale or raffle people will just shrug and say, ‘Oh, well, no lives lost’? No, they’re going to bring up every stupid, dumbass thing she ever did in her life in order to ‘prove’ that no one should have let her be in charge of anything in the first place. This is trial by fire for her.”

True. He hadn’t thought of it that way, and he of all people really should have. “So what’s Molly’s excuse?”

“This is her first time really being a part of this, much less being in charge. She is definitely feeling the pressure to prove herself and not let people down. And not only does she have to do it right, she’s got a fund-raising goal to meet as well.”

“I talked to her the other night, and she seemed fine.”

“I’m sure she is, overall. But even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t tell you.”

That stung. “Why not?”

“Because they need sympathy, not justice, right now.”

“I can give sympathy.”

Sam gave him a pitying “how can you be so stupid?” look. “You are incapable of straight sympathy. You’ll tell her she’ll do fine, there’s nothing to worry about—”

“Well, it’s all true.”

“And then you’ll start trying to sort out the problem and fix it.”

“And that wouldn’t be helpful because . . . ?”

“Because that’s not what either of them wants to hear right now. Let them freak out if they need to. They’re under pressure.”

“All the more reason for me to go over there and see if I can do anything to calm her—them—down.”

“No. There’s nothing over there for you to do. And they’re not in the mood to listen to other people anyway. I teasingly threatened to switch them both to decaf, and Helena looked like she was about to put my head on a platter.”

He watched them for a minute. “They are taking turns talking, but they’re not looking at each other. Is that some girl-sympathy thing I don’t understand?”

Sam was reveling in her superiority. “No. They’re talking
at
each other, not
to
. It’s venting,” she explained in a tone that clearly called him dumber than a bag of hammers.

He let it pass, simply because he couldn’t take his eyes off Molly and Helena. It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen—and with two sisters, he’d seen a hell of a lot of strange girl stuff. He could wish they’d just believe him when he told them everything would be fine—and that the world wouldn’t end even if it wasn’t—but Helena rarely listened to him and Molly wasn’t proving to be much better. “How long have they been at it?”

“About an hour.” She lowered her voice. “I did switch them to half-caf on the last refill. I’m afraid they’ll stress themselves into a stroke.” Sam smiled as she refilled a coffee for another customer. “And by the way”—she turned back to him—“did something happen between you and Molly?”

He stiffened involuntarily, but Sam didn’t seem to notice. He tried to sound casual. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“When she started in on her weekly freak-out today, I told her to call you.”

“And?”

“She got all flustered and knocked over her coffee. Then she started swearing.”

The fluster could be promising, but the swearing . . . “
Er, um . . .”

“I figured she wasn’t going to tell
me
if my brother had been being a dick, and I’m not going to say anything to you except knock it off if you are. I like Molly.”

“I like Molly, too.”

He’d meant it in the most offhanded, “I’m merely echoing your statement” kind of way, but Sam’s head snapped around and her eyes narrowed at him. “You do?”

Damn, sisters are dangerous creatures.
“Yes. We’re friends.”

He could tell by her look that Sam didn’t wasn’t buying that wholesale. Still, she said, “You might want to be careful. Helena’s trying to set you and Molly up. Someone might get the wrong idea.”

Sam was good, but she wasn’t
that
good. She was fishing, but he didn’t have to take the bait. “I’m aware of that. As is Molly, too. Don’t worry.”

She smiled and leaned across the counter. “Not that I’d object, you know.”

“Hush.”
Great. Just great.

“I could even put in a good word for you with Molly, if you were leaning that way. Very casually, of course.”

“I’ll take a tall black coffee—to go.” Any ideas he might have had about talking to Molly now were completely off the table. Not with Helena and now Sam ready to butt in at any moment with meddling and matchmaking. He did not need commentary—helpful or heckling—from the peanut gallery.

“You’re no fun.”

“And you’re not fixing my coffee,” he reminded her. “Some barista you are.”

Giving him that pitying look again, Sam did finally make him a to-go cup of coffee, but she waved away his money. “No charge.”

“Giving away freebies to the customers is a good way to lose your job.”

Sam pulled back, clearly insulted. “I would never do that.”

“Well, I’m not letting you buy my coffee.”

“I’m not. Molly is,” she clarified. “Per her edict last week. You drink free here because you saved her cat’s life.”

“I can’t let her do that.”