Hard to Hold (True Romance) (8 page)

The on-screen tension was powerful, but it was Anne who had captured him. She spoke with emotion, ate with relish, drank with gusto and watched TV as if her life depended on it. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining how her take-no-prisoner’s personality would transfer to other parts of her life—particularly the life she lived in her bedroom.

The thought brought him up short. He was no prude, but he wasn’t casual about sex, either. Of course, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent time with a woman he was so attracted to whom he hadn’t known for a prolonged period of time before their first date. Anne presented him with new, invigorating desires—along with new, problematic decisions.

After the preview of next week’s action was over, Anne pressed the mute button again.

“What did you think?”

Mike slid his wineglass onto the table and surrendering to a powerful impulse, plucked the remote from her grip and took her hands in his.

“I think there’s something important that I need to tell you.”

Anne leaned back, suddenly wary of the serious look on Michael’s face. Okay, so maybe she’d watched the show with a little more enthusiasm than would appear “normal” to someone who had not joined the cult of
24
. At least she hadn’t invited him to watch
Lost
. He’d probably be screaming for the door before the first appearance of the smoke monster.

“About the show?” she asked.

His eyebrows tilted inward, as if she’d spoken her question in a foreign language.

“What? No, the show was great.”

“So, what’s up?” she asked.

His hands tightened around hers, and not unpleasantly. She liked how his firm grip managed to remain gentle. Protective. She liked how his blue eyes picked up the electronic gleam of the television and reflected back with more blue than a Caribbean ocean.

“I want to go out with you,” he said.

She looked around at the darkened apartment, at the glittering candles she’s borrowed from Shane to make the room more romantic and cover up the fact that she hadn’t dusted since sometime last month. “Isn’t that what this is?”

He shook his head. “This was amazing and wonderful and really special, but it wasn’t a real date, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do,” she confessed.

“I want to ask you out.”

“So ask,” she prompted.

He pressed his lips together and in that one hesitation, a thousand scenarios for his reluctance flashed across her mind. Was he secretly married? Did he have a girlfriend? Maybe a criminal record that she could have easily discovered if she’d checked him out before she invited him into her home?

“I have Tourette’s syndrome,” he said.

Of all the things in the world he could have confessed, this was something she never would have expected.

His hands tightened around hers, his eyes intense and his jaw set. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him and noticed for the first time that his left eye blinked slightly more often than his right.

Anne didn’t pretend to be an expert on medical conditions, but being a reporter had exposed her to a lot of information about a great many topics. She already knew that the stereotype of the Tourette’s sufferer who barked, cursed, or gestured wildly with no self-control was an extreme and not a common manifestation compared to the total number of people who had the disorder.

“I never noticed,” she said.

“Really? I have mostly facial twitches, excessive eye blinking and neck movements. It’s a mild case, compared to what’s hyped up in the media, but when I’m really tired or super-stressed, I can even exhibit jerking movements in my arms and legs. One time in high school, I actually got punched out by a girl who thought I was getting fresh with her.”

He waggled his eyebrows—and she knew the action was entirely on purpose.

“And you don’t want me to think you’re getting fresh?” she teased.

“Not until I actually am,” he replied, his expression a little sly. “I’m on meds and I take good care of myself, so most of the time, no one realizes I have the disorder. But before I ask you out on a proper date, I thought full disclosure was important.”

Anne took a minute to let the information digest, her stare caught with Michael’s. For a split second, she saw beyond the brilliant blue to a deep, sincere, honest, and raw vulnerability that caught her off guard and disarmed her. This was the kind of information you shared with close friends or family, not some girl you wanted to take out for dinner and a movie.

Unless he wanted more than dinner and a movie.

After taking a fortifying breath, she smiled. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to tell me, but I appreciate that you did. I’ll probably have a million questions about it.”

He scooted closer. The air around her instantly sparked, as if tiny sparks of electricity flashed from his body into hers. “Ask me anything.”

She tilted her chin at him, but suddenly couldn’t think of a single question. All the brain pathways that led to coherent thought had backed up like traffic on I-87. His pupils were dark, his breath sweet with wine, his mouth parted by a mysterious half smile.

“Do you want more Riesling?” she finally managed.

“No,” he said.

And then he kissed her.

Seven

T
HE MOMENT HIS LIPS TOUCHED HERS
, heat suffused through her body, starting deep within her belly and then flaming outward until every extremity sizzled, from the tips of her fingers to the curling flesh of her toes. Her heartbeat accelerated and she could no longer tell which flashes of light were coming from the television and which were popping from deep within her.

Then, just as quickly as someone blows out a newly lit match, he was gone.

He leaned back into the couch and whistled out a breath. “Wow.”

Anne pressed her tingling lips together.
Wow
was a very good word. In her mind, a kiss like that was meant to be a prelude to more kisses, though she supposed his choice to slow things down wasn’t a bad thing. At least, not in the short term.

Unable to say anything intelligent, witty, or funny, she opted to simply smile. He smiled back. In less than thirty seconds, they’d devolved from
wow
to awkward. Luckily, Michael rescued the moment by taking her hands in his and brushing a duo of soft kisses across her knuckles.

“Anne, will you go out with me?”

She couldn’t contain her laughter. “I’d love to,” she replied.

“Good.”

They sat quietly for another minute. Anne liked his hands. The strength in his palms was offset by the relaxation of his grip on hers. He was touching her, sharing the same warmth, but not holding her in place. Then, after an inhalation that quivered with some pent-up emotion that she guessed was his half of their mutual desire, Mike starting collecting the dirty dishes.

“You don’t have to do that,” Anne objected, attempting to snag a spoon out of his hand.

“No,” he retorted, his action becoming quicker and more insistent as he scraped the leftover food onto one plate and stacked the other dishes with the largest on the bottom. “Actually, I do. One of my best qualities is that I’m obsessive about cleaning.”

“That’s a good quality?” she asked. “Not that I have anything against it, but I should tell you upfront that I don’t share it.”

“I figured,” he said, but something about his tone waylaid any self-consciousness at her peccadillo. “This mess has been driving me crazy for the last hour.”

By making the problem his instead of hers, he kept her from taking a defensive posture. Anne had always made housekeeping her very lowest priority. It had driven her mother mad when Anne lived at home, but since she’d been out on her own, she’d gleefully lived her own way, preferring to do quick pickups when the clutter overwhelmed her or, like tonight, when company was coming. If she had to choose between talking late into the night with Michael or dishpan hands, there was no contest.

Mike, on the other hand, seemed downright giddy about collecting dirty dishes.

“Now, see, this is important info. The Tourette’s I can live with, but neat-freak tendencies concern me,” she said.

He snorted. “I try not to project my preferences on other people, so you don’t have to take it personally.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” she said, meaning it. “I’ll see what I can scare up for dessert.”

In her entire lifetime, Anne had never once had a guy clean up after her—well, at least not one who seemed so happy about it. He wanted to load the plates into her dishwasher, but as she hadn’t yet emptied the previous load and didn’t want to bother with such a production now, she insisted that he simply set them in hot, soapy water. He complied, but only after rinsing them nearly spotless.

After that, he wiped down the coffee table and rinsed out the now-empty wine bottle for recycling. He might have dragged out her vacuum to do a light run around the living area if she hadn’t suggested that they take Sirus for a walk down to the nearby café, where they could sit outside and share a slice of cheesecake and espresso. The only sweet thing she seemed to have in her cupboard was a half-eaten sleeve of Chips Ahoy.

“It’s kind of cold out,” he warned.

Anne shrugged. “That’s what wool is for. Just give me a sec to bundle up.”

She tore into her bedroom. For the first time in recent memory, she noticed how untidy it was. She had clothes on the floor, a bra bunched up on the side table and a week’s worth of water glasses lined up across the dresser. As she dug into her drawer to find clothes that were functionally warm and aesthetically attractive, she wondered what would happen if Mike ended up in here at some point. Would he kiss her again or clean up first?

Not that she had any intention of inviting him into her bed so soon. They had not, as he’d pointed out, even had a real date yet. While Anne was a big fan of sex, she had to keep her eyes on the prize. Go-nowhere hookups were not her speed and Michael had the potential to be so much more. The fact that he’d shared something as important to him as a neurological disorder after they’d known each other for a short time implied that he saw her in the same light—as someone who might just go the distance.

The thought made her knees wobbly, so she took a second to sit on her bed.

Since before Anne had moved to New York from San Antonio, she’d known what she wanted—a guy in her life who would last a lifetime. She’d done the partying thing and the casual dating thing, but a serious relationship had remained elusive. Her gaze drifted to the second nightstand she’d bought.

Maybe it wouldn’t be wasted space after all.

Laughing at her sudden seriousness, Anne decided that over-thinking her interactions with Michael before they’d even had a first date was more than a little premature. The furthest ahead she needed to anticipate for was the next hour or two, so she dashed into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She then tore off her sweater, put on a snug, long-sleeve shirt and layered a heavier sweater over it. She traded her comfy shoes for lined boots and grabbed her coat, hat, and gloves. Then, as a last thought, she snagged her favorite lip balm. She hoped Michael liked the flavor of honey.

“Ready,” she announced.

Mike was standing by the door, his hands buried deep in his pockets, and looking way more serious than a man about to eat cheesecake should.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Just wondering. About the Tourette’s. Does it bother you?”

He’d risked a lot, setting such a disclosure on the table so early on. He’d either acted on impulse or out of deep courage, both of which gained her admiration.

“Should it?”

“It’s not something I ordinarily disclose so early in a—”

He cut himself off, but Anne was good enough with words to know that the next one he was about to say was “relationship.” She was relieved that he kept that word to himself, but at the same time, the idea that this man already had the notion in his brain thrilled her.

He leaned back against the door and held out his hand. She took it and with gentle slowness, he reeled her closer. An inch of space existed between them, but as his kiss had burned itself into her body’s memory after only a few brief seconds of contact, her mouth quivered.

“I’m honored you told me,” she said. “But I know what it is, and I know what I’m getting into. If your hand inadvertently brushes over my ass, I promise to ask if you meant it before I sock you. Or kiss you.”

The scant distance between them disappeared in an instant and Anne reveled in the soft, tentative feel of Mike’s mouth on hers again. He slid his fingers beneath the hem of her jacket and encircled her waist, his grip possessive and one-hundred percent steady.

She speared her hands into his hair, invigorated to learn that his black curls were just as thick and soft as she’d anticipated. She sighed and parted her lips, experiencing an explosion of sensation when their tongues touched, twirled, and tangled.

And then, he used his confident hold on her waist to break the kiss.

“Is it hot in here or is it just me?”

“Not just you,” she said. “But maybe I am bundled up like an Eskimo.”