Risky Business (16 page)

He let himself in through the back door. The lights were off, but he could see Allison's silhouette leaning against the front of the desk, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. By the looks of it, she still wore her coat.

“You should be home sleeping now that Katie's quiet.” She said it in the same weary tone she'd used to apologize to him, and he winced inwardly at the reminder of his asshole reply.

He stopped in front of her, an arm's length away. “Come to the kitchen.”

Theo cut a wide berth around Allison en route to the kitchen. The kitchen was miniscule. As small as Lanette's, maybe smaller, and with no working oven or stove. Just a sink, a hot plate she'd set up on the counter, a microwave, and an ancient refrigerator that had picked up a hum and rattle a few years back. He draped his jacket onto the back of a chair, then heated two mugs of water in the microwave.

Hot chocolate wasn't much of a peace offering, but it seemed like the right call tonight. Allison didn't materialize until he was in the process of stirring in the mix from the tin he'd brought.

She hovered in the doorway, watching, leery. “What are you doing?”

He topped the chocolate off with Irish Cream liqueur, then set the mug on the table. He realized she would probably think he was ignoring her, but being here, doing this, it was the limit of his capacity. He was feeling too much, too fast.

He pulled out the chair that bore his jacket. She stared, but didn't move.

He unbuttoned her coat and eased the sleeves off one arm, then the other. Like the night he'd knocked her into the canal, she let him disrobe her without helping, without seemingly noticing that it was happening. Tonight, though, he stopped at only her coat. When it was off and he was looking at her faded Buffalo Sabres sweatshirt, he gestured to the chair.

“
Assois-toi
.” Terrific. His first attempt to speak and it came out French. That new tic was getting old. He huffed and allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Sit down.”

Miracle of miracles, she didn't argue with him. He scooted the hot chocolate in front of her.

“Drink.”

He turned away and prepared a second cup of hot chocolate and liqueur. He had something to say and it was going to take more than a single word and he couldn't say it while looking at her.

Facing the counter, he stirred chocolate powder into his mug and cleared his throat. “Tomorrow, let's go over the financials of the landing and what we need to do to prepare for spring. You're not going to strike it rich in this business, but you'll be able to pay the bills once the spring and summer reservations start rolling in.”

She let out a slow exhale. “That's . . .” She paused and cleared the rasp from her throat. “That's good. I might be taking Katie to the doctor if she's not better in the morning, but other than that, my schedule's wide open.” That last part was said with a heaping dose of self-deprecation that brought a faint smile to Theo's lips as he added liqueur.

“Other than tomorrow night's hockey game, my schedule's wide open, too.”

Then he was done preparing his cup of hot chocolate. There was nothing left to do except turn around and face her, perhaps sit at the table with her in companionable silence until it was time for her to go upstairs and go to bed and him to resume his restless night alone on Lanette.

Except that there was one more thing he needed to say. He drank deeply from his cup, then braced his hands on the edge of the counter. “I'm sorry Lowell ruined your life. You've been dealt a really shitty hand and I admire the way you're handling it.”

There. He said it. And the world didn't end and his heart didn't explode from the effort. In fact, it was a relief to have gotten that off his chest.

He heard the scrape of her chair. So she was walking away. Okay. That was a fair response after all the grief he'd given her. His peace offering was still on the table whenever she was ready to deal with it—and with him.

Then she was standing next to him. Her hand was on his forearm. He watched her hand's slow crawl down his sleeve toward his hand. His whole body was overcome with chills, more than a zing of pleasure, but rather the oddest sensation that her touching him was exactly right. Exactly how it was supposed to be between them.

Her hand reached his and covered it. Her fingers slipped between his and held on tight. Breathing hard, with those chills still coursing through him, he raised his focus to her face and locked eyes with her.

What he saw in her eyes floored him. Determination. Strength. Lust. Not one iota of gratitude. Just a stubbornly set jaw that told him
You don't scare me,
eyes that said
I get you
and lips that added
and I want you
. She got him. It didn't make sense because how could she? They'd known each other less than a month and ninety-nine percent of the time he'd been a jerk to her. But she got who he was and what made him tick, even if he hadn't shared a single detail about why. Even though he hadn't shared the extent of his disabilities.

She got him and she wanted him—and that combo was more potent than he could've imagined. He wrenched his hand out from under hers and wrapped it around her hip as he stepped in front of her. Her fingers curled around his upper arms, her nails biting into his flesh through his shirt as he caught her lips with his.

He kissed her, slow and closed-lipped, too dizzy with need to go fast. Her lips were sweet and soft. She tasted of chocolate—warm and luscious and so very exquisite. His heartbeat sped until the rush of blood through his ears rivaled that of a puck drop or penalty shot on goal. He wouldn't have heard it if a semitrailer careered through the lobby, and he didn't care.

They were kissing so slowly that they gradually stopped moving at all, just held their lips against each other and breathed ragged fits of air through their noses, eyes closed, bodies locked in place.

What could he say to her now? He couldn't even figure out how to move, much less break the kiss and look at her.

She pulled her lips from his, though their noses still brushed. Then her lips were moving along with an accompanying garble of sound. He opened his eyes and willed his focus past the rush of blood through his bad ear. “I didn't hear you. Say that again.”

She fingered the sleeve of his shirt, her eyes downcast. “I'm not ready for this.”

How could she be so sure what
this
was, when he had no idea? “This? You mean, kissing? Or hot chocolate?”

She ignored his lame attempt at humor. “No.” She rolled her eyes up his chest and met his gaze, her expression guarded. But behind that shield, he saw a desire that mirrored the intensity of his own. “For the way you make me feel.”

Neither was he. Not by a mile.

Then it hit him. He didn't get to feel this, whatever it was. He had no right. She was Allison Whitley, scumbag Lowell Whitley's ex-wife, not some friend of Harper's or a woman he met at a bar. She was his boss.

His goddamn boss.
What was he doing?

She searched his face for a response, but the storm swirling inside him was too disjointed to put into words or even settle on an expression. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he could think of only one possible response to Allison's whispered confession and his subsequent epiphany.

He cupped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her again, harder this time. Her hands splaying over his chest, she surrendered her mouth to his will, meeting his tongue, melting into his touch, kissing him back. It was an intoxicating discovery that got him wondering about how sublime it would be if she surrendered the rest of her body to him, what he could do for her. How much more he could make her feel.

Not tonight, though. Maybe not ever. That would be the smarter choice by far. When he mustered the will to end the kiss, he disentangled his body from hers and backed up, relearning how to breathe, giving her space. Flushed cheeked, she blinked slowly, then passed her tongue over her lower lip as she eyed him with a wholly new expression—something in between confusion and wonderment. He couldn't be sure, exactly, because he didn't make a habit of trying to interpret women's thoughts, but that was his guess.

He was experiencing his own bout of wonderment, at himself, and at the sheer, unexpected pleasure of kissing Allison. At a loss as to what to do next besides giving in to the growing urge to kiss her again, he looked around the kitchen, then zeroed in on the cup of hot chocolate he'd made her. He picked it up and set it in her hands, curling her fingers around it. It was barely warm, but the milk and liqueur would help her sleep.

“Drink this, then get some rest before Katie's fever medicine wears off.”

“Then what?”

“Then, tomorrow, we'll talk about the business.” He knew that wasn't what she meant, not really, but that's what needed to happen next for them. He downed the rest of his chocolate, then rinsed the mug in the sink and set it upside down on a towel. When he turned to dry his hands, he found her watching him over the rim of her mug, wonderment still dancing in her eyes. When she lowered the mug to the counter, a thin line of chocolate remained on her upper lip. He watched as she licked it off.

She walked with him to the back door. He took her hand somewhere along the way and when they reached the door, she turned in his arms.

“Good night, Theo.”

He blinked himself out of the trance and met her gaze. He meant to return the words, but he couldn't get them out. He cleared his throat and tried again, but instead of bidding her good night, he kissed her again, as though he were powerless to prevent it. He kissed her closed mouth, concentrating on her lips, on the taste of chocolate and Allison's skin. She touched his face and his neck, his ears and shoulders, exploring him.

He held her close after their kiss ended, stroking her hair and her back, breathing and being, and feeling absolutely right with the universe for the first time in a long time. It was while thinking in wonderment about that new discovery that he heard himself say, “Come to my hockey game tomorrow night.”

“I'll be there. Are you going to make me a bet like Brandon and Harper have?”

So she knew about that screwed up game of cat and mouse those two were playing. He backed up so he could look into her eyes. “Should I?”

She pretended to consider the question, then a small smile lighted on her lips. “No. Not necessary.”

He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Go get some rest. Morning will be here before you know it.”

The memory of her soft curves and even softer lips on his, paired with the idea of kissing Allison again, kept Theo warm and full of wonderment all the way home to Lanette and through the rest of the stormy night.

***

Rule number one for Allison, moving forward, was that she wasn't going to show Theo any gratitude. For whatever reason she didn't understand, he couldn't deal with it. So even though he'd finally ceded the point that she wasn't leaving Cloud Nine, and even though he'd set aside the day to go over financials with her and teach her how to run the business, she wouldn't make a big deal about it. As a thank you, she wouldn't thank him. That sounded royally screwed up, but then again, nothing about their relationship made any sense.

Especially after last night.

Her toes curled in her socks thinking about those kisses and the way his big, muscled, hot-as-sin body had felt crowded up against her. Better than she'd fantasized about, and she'd fantasized about him kissing her and making love to her a lot. Like,
a lot
.

It wasn't supposed to be like this between them, or for her with anyone. Not yet. Her divorce had only been official for four months. Katie had only been weaned to a bottle for one. She knew she was in way over her head, but she couldn't find it in herself to care anymore.

When he walked through Cloud Nine's back door, her stomach turned fluttery. She smiled at him, but he didn't return it. Instead, he seemed really serious and uncomfortable.

“Hi,” she ventured tentatively.

He rolled his hands together. “So, um, let me get this all out. I don't really know how to tell you, because I've never said it like this, all at once to someone, but I'm just going to dive in and see how it comes out, okay?”

A thousand different thoughts ran through her head. He regretted last night. He wouldn't help her. He was leaving. She folded her hands together, infinitely glad that Chelsea and Katie were out on a long walk so she could deal with whatever he was going to say in private. “Okay.”

“I have a traumatic brain injury, a TBI. I sustained it while I was in the army on deployment in Afghanistan. My unit was in the southern province, on a joint mission with British and American troops. One afternoon, we were on a routine patrol. I remember the stray dogs running alongside our vehicle. I told the soldier next to me that the dogs were thick today.

“The next thing I remember, I was in the back of a medical truck with a US medic kneeling over me. The vehicle I'd been riding in hit a roadside bomb. I was one of only two survivors, and the other one, Second Lieutenant Mike Enlow, lost both his arms and part of his face. I was the lucky one.”

Brows wrinkling, he looked at the floor, as though replaying the day in his mind.

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-two. As a result of my TBI, I have hearing loss in both ears, but it's the worst in my right ear, and because of the damage to my left parietal lobe, I can't read. Or write. My neurologists told me I'm lucky that I retained the ability to talk and hold numbers in my head. Really, I'm lucky I didn't turn into a vegetable. When I was in the neuro wing at the hospital, I met soldiers who were drooling on themselves.”

The relief Allison had felt when he'd started talking, that he wasn't leaving, but merely explaining the extent of his disabilities, exploded into a jumbled mess of shock and concern. He couldn't read or write. Holy shit. “Oh, wow. That's not what I thought you were going to say.”

“What did you think I was going to say?”

She shrugged. “That you were leaving or that you regretted last night.”

He blinked at her. “No. To both of those things.”

She tried on a smile, comforted by the speed of his reply. “Good. Me, neither.”

His face remaining a mask of stoicism, he nodded. “Good. Let me finish telling you all this. I've never laid it all out like this, the extent of my disabilities. Like I was saying, I can't read. I mean, I can read, but I can't . . .” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “My brain doesn't process the words. It can't string them together to make sense. I can write individual words, if I concentrate and use the tricks my occupational therapists taught me, but I can't read back what I wrote to make sure it says what I meant to say.”