Read Love Letters, Inc. for Free Online
Authors: Ec Sheedy
muffins and an aroma that was all about lazy Sunday mornings, scattered newspapers, and crumbs in the bed. Kent, leaning against the doorjamb, breathed deep.
Rosie caught sight of him as she turned to put the muffins on the counter. "Hey, it's the dinner guest from hell." She waved a mitted hand. "There's orange juice in the fridge."
"Fresh squeezed, I'll bet."
She smiled at him. "You're complaining?" She used one of her mittened paws to push back a rush of red hair that threatened to cloud her face.
"Mind if I use your shower first? Mess up some towels. Maybe splash some water around?"
"Do your worst. You'll find what you need down the hall off the guest bedroom."
The shower made him feel human. An idiot human, maybe, but it was an improvement.
Back in the kitchen, he ambled to the fridge in stockinged feet and poured himself the juice she'd offered. He leaned against the fridge, sipping and enjoying the sight of Rosie O'Hanlon in the morning. Nice. Very nice.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
She smiled at that, and her expression turned impish. "For what? Sleeping on my sofa or nodding off before I finished my first complete sentence. That was a first. Most men hang in there for at least a paragraph or two."
He grimaced at her teasing words, then drained the last of his orange juice. "Both."
"That's okay. Sit down, hotshot."
He watched her take a warmed plate from the oven, fill it with eggs, bacon, and fried tomato, then put it on a place mat at the same seat he'd used last night.
She gave him a stern look. "Eat—and then run." She took off the mitts and hung them on a hook by the stove. "I've got to get myself dressed for the corporate jungle. My ride's due in about a half an hour." She turned to face him. "If you need anything else, you're on your own. Okay?"
"Okay." He gestured toward the table. "This is nice, Rosie. You didn't have—"
"—to do it. I know."
Their gazes met and locked. Kent saw a faint blush color her cheeks. She looked pensive, as if unsure of her next move—or his. Kent wasn't.
He wanted the food, but he wanted something else a hell of a lot more. Something equally as basic. He walked toward her. He needed to touch her. To taste her. Right here. Now.
She stood, a flame-haired statue, still and waiting. At least he hoped she was.
"Rosie?" He touched her cheek with his knuckles, closed his eyes to imprint the softness of skin to memory. He heard her intake of breath. "Rosie," he said again, brushing his mouth over hers.
He wanted to slide his hand to the back of her neck, pull her close, but the brace was a barrier, so he took her face in his palms and slipped his fingers into her hair at her temples. Tendrils wrapped around his fingers like breeze-blown smoke.
He pulled back and looked down at her. "I have to kiss you. You know that." His voice came from a closed throat and sounded strangely uneven.
She gulped and tightened her lips, but she didn't move back. Not an inch. Thank God. Then she gave the barest of nods, her chin pressing into the brace. Her expression was wary—as if she were about to receive her first dose of an unknown medicine. Her hands fisted at her sides.
He smiled, sensing she hoped it would taste bad. That he would taste bad.
And he kissed her, determined to prove her wrong.
He took her mouth gently, willing her lips to ease and welcome his. He tamped his impatience, the knot of need forming in his gut. He slipped his fingers deeper into her hair, anchoring her head to better explore and savor. His eyes closed, shutting out the cheery kitchen, the breakfast on the table. Shutting out everything but Rosie and the sweetness of her mouth. His breathing thickened, and the knot pulled painfully. He felt her stiffen and pull back, and a stab of disappointment jolted him.
He was steeling himself to release her when he heard a low moan, and felt her breath rush across his cheek.
"Oh, Kent, this is—" She didn't finish. Instead, she wrapped her arms tight
Rosie caught sight of him as she turned to put the muffins on the counter. "Hey, it's the dinner guest from hell." She waved a mitted hand. "There's orange juice in the fridge."
"Fresh squeezed, I'll bet."
She smiled at him. "You're complaining?" She used one of her mittened paws to push back a rush of red hair that threatened to cloud her face.
"Mind if I use your shower first? Mess up some towels. Maybe splash some water around?"
"Do your worst. You'll find what you need down the hall off the guest bedroom."
The shower made him feel human. An idiot human, maybe, but it was an improvement.
Back in the kitchen, he ambled to the fridge in stockinged feet and poured himself the juice she'd offered. He leaned against the fridge, sipping and enjoying the sight of Rosie O'Hanlon in the morning. Nice. Very nice.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
She smiled at that, and her expression turned impish. "For what? Sleeping on my sofa or nodding off before I finished my first complete sentence. That was a first. Most men hang in there for at least a paragraph or two."
He grimaced at her teasing words, then drained the last of his orange juice. "Both."
"That's okay. Sit down, hotshot."
He watched her take a warmed plate from the oven, fill it with eggs, bacon, and fried tomato, then put it on a place mat at the same seat he'd used last night.
She gave him a stern look. "Eat—and then run." She took off the mitts and hung them on a hook by the stove. "I've got to get myself dressed for the corporate jungle. My ride's due in about a half an hour." She turned to face him. "If you need anything else, you're on your own. Okay?"
"Okay." He gestured toward the table. "This is nice, Rosie. You didn't have—"
"—to do it. I know."
Their gazes met and locked. Kent saw a faint blush color her cheeks. She looked pensive, as if unsure of her next move—or his. Kent wasn't.
He wanted the food, but he wanted something else a hell of a lot more. Something equally as basic. He walked toward her. He needed to touch her. To taste her. Right here. Now.
She stood, a flame-haired statue, still and waiting. At least he hoped she was.
"Rosie?" He touched her cheek with his knuckles, closed his eyes to imprint the softness of skin to memory. He heard her intake of breath. "Rosie," he said again, brushing his mouth over hers.
He wanted to slide his hand to the back of her neck, pull her close, but the brace was a barrier, so he took her face in his palms and slipped his fingers into her hair at her temples. Tendrils wrapped around his fingers like breeze-blown smoke.
He pulled back and looked down at her. "I have to kiss you. You know that." His voice came from a closed throat and sounded strangely uneven.
She gulped and tightened her lips, but she didn't move back. Not an inch. Thank God. Then she gave the barest of nods, her chin pressing into the brace. Her expression was wary—as if she were about to receive her first dose of an unknown medicine. Her hands fisted at her sides.
He smiled, sensing she hoped it would taste bad. That he would taste bad.
And he kissed her, determined to prove her wrong.
He took her mouth gently, willing her lips to ease and welcome his. He tamped his impatience, the knot of need forming in his gut. He slipped his fingers deeper into her hair, anchoring her head to better explore and savor. His eyes closed, shutting out the cheery kitchen, the breakfast on the table. Shutting out everything but Rosie and the sweetness of her mouth. His breathing thickened, and the knot pulled painfully. He felt her stiffen and pull back, and a stab of disappointment jolted him.
He was steeling himself to release her when he heard a low moan, and felt her breath rush across his cheek.
"Oh, Kent, this is—" She didn't finish. Instead, she wrapped her arms tight