Phantoms Trilogy

Chapter 8

With most of the crew scattered throughout the house finishing the day's investigation, Ava, Casey, and Jackson stood in the library waiting on Kerry. Ava was beginning to find everything the crew did fascinating.

"God, I hope this isn't a mistake." Kerry scanned yet another page from the stack they found in the desk.

Casey was ever vigilant in her questions. "Why would it be a mistake?"

Kerry tapped a few keys on Ava's computer. "These pages are in remarkable shape, considering their age. Assuming they're Sarah's, that would make them two centuries old. We can attribute their good condition to low moisture and no light from being inside the desk, but exposing them like this could damage them."

Ava crossed her arms, noting the white gloves Kerry wore while handling the papers. Each page was maneuvered with care before being scanned and labeled. Once downloaded, Kerry could adjust the image to better read the documents. Or so she said.

Casey sighed, flicking a glance Ava's way. "I have to go, hon. Walk me out?"

"Sure."

She gave Ava a brief hug at the front door and abruptly released her. "We need to talk about Captain Sexypants later."

"What?"

"Don't even try. He looks at you like you're crème brûlée. And you haven't gotten any action in-" Casey looked skyward as if trying to conjure the answer from On High.

Ava rolled her eyes. "More than two years. And it's not gonna happen."

"Why the hell not? Crème. Brûlée, girlfriend."

She laughed and darted a glance over her shoulder to make sure they didn't have an audience. All clear. "He's so charming, it's annoying. And in case you haven't noticed, we're never alone. Besides, there's no future with him."

Casey pinned her with an expression of sheer SFW. "What difference does that make? Have fun while he's here." Her friend's eyes glazed over like a teenage romcom movie of the week. "He. Is. Hawt."

"Yeah, okay. Bye now. I'll call you later."

Ushering her BFF out, Ava closed the door, shaking her head. She made her way back to the library, only to find Jackson waiting outside in the hall.

Wide shoulders. Thick black hair. Penetrating blue eyes. Lips that could level kingdoms.

God, he was hot. Annoying and arrogant and hot.

"Wanted to talk to you about something." Hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, he rocked on his heels as if trying to seem nonchalant. The tension in his shoulders belied the attempt. His gaze drifted to her throat, across her chest, but it was distant. Glazed.

What was wrong? Something with the papers they'd found? Worry cramped her belly. "Lay it on me, Jackson."

Bam. Focus restored. His attention shot to her mouth, darted briefly to her eyes, but landed right back to her mouth and...lingered.

Okay. Damn. Bad word choice on her part.

His full lips parted, and he rasped a shallow inhale that she swore he'd stolen right from her in the couple feet between them.

Her face heated as she imagined what it would feel like if they kissed. His hard body pressed to hers. Those large hands exploring...

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

She jumped, heart in her throat, startled at the swift change in momentum.

A shake of his head as if to clear it. "Right, um... I saw your mother in town yesterday. She mentioned some concerns."

Trying not to get whiplash from the change of subject, she blinked. "Concerns?"

"Yes. About you and the mansion. Now that we've found something, and it's possible you'll get to keep the estate, I thought I should mention-"

"Don't bother." How dare he?

"Ava, she's worried-"

"Let me guess. I'll end up crazy and alone with twelve cats and only the dead for company? Save it, Jackson. I've heard it before."

He stared at her, studying with a level of measured patience that made her want to squirm, like he was trying to put the puzzle of her together. She had a suspicion he'd figure her out, too, intuitive as he was, so she carefully skilled her expression blank. Better he thought she wasn't affected, that her family's reaction and inability to support her didn't pierce deep. Gone was his usual banter and playfulness. She much preferred that to how he looked at her now. With concern. Bordering on...pity.

She could hack just about anything but that.

"Ava, she's got a point."

She'd been wrong. She'd take pity over his soft, sympathetic, understanding tone. God help her, she didn't know what to do with compassion.

Any residual trace of heat between them fizzled. Ice water on her brain. "I know my family history."

Why did it suddenly seem like he gave a damn about her? His whole demeanor, from the tenderness in his eyes to the slight bracketing smile at the corners of his lips to the wide-open posture, seemed to scream he cared.

"Then perhaps you should reconsider, luv. If there's any merit..."

Kerry chose then to emerge from the library, which was for the best as Ava was about to launch into a snappy mind-your-own-damn-business comeback.

"The documents are all scanned." Kerry brushed a strand of blonde hair from her cheek. "I placed the originals in one of your empty file drawers, wrapped in a dry linen towel. You should get a glass case for them. Something that keeps out moisture."

Not a bad idea. Ava could display them in the parlor, as that was the only room she planned to keep off-limits for future guests when she opened the B&B. "Thanks. Are the papers readable?"

"Yes. Let's get Tom in here to film and we can read through the printouts."

Jackson called for the cameraman in his walkie-talkie.

When Tom appeared with a camera on his shoulder, the four of them entered the library. They sat on the couch with Kerry in the middle.

"There were thirty pages total, with writing on one side of the paper. That's pretty typical for the time. Quill ink bled through or smeared."

Jackson rubbed his chin, glancing in Kerry's lap. "No dates."

"No," Kerry sighed. "But look."

After each page, the initials S.K. were scrawled on the bottom.

Ava's heart tripped behind her ribs. "They are Sarah's."

Kerry divided the pages, keeping the first ten for her, the next for Jackson, and the last ten for Ava, with the understanding they'd alert each other to points of interest, then swap.

Ava dug into hers with gusto.

The first few pages mentioned Sarah's father, John Kerrick, meeting in secret at night with a man Sarah didn't know. She caught him sneaking off and returning hours later.

There was a lot about her deep adoration for Peter and how she couldn't wait to wed in the spring. Her mother was making her a dress of the finest lace and silk. Such whimsy and innocence in her words that Ava got lost in the sweetness of first love.

But the last page stripped the smile clean from her face. Sarah had confronted her father about the mysterious man, and he confessed they'd be returning to their true homeland of England. He forbade her to marry Peter Trumble, and forbade her to speak to him about the matter or it would out the family. Sarah planned to go against her father's orders, tell Peter, and run away with him. Her betrayal and hurt leaked through every word.

That was it. All she wrote.

Ava told the others what her entries said, even reading a few passages aloud.

"So, we still don't know if she met with Peter or not." Jackson frowned. "Maybe Peter saw this as a betrayal and killed her. Or maybe John Kerrick learned about the plan and killed his daughter."

She rubbed her forehead. "Or she killed herself."

A forceful tug on the pages jerked her arm forward with enough force to lift it from her lap, as if someone made an attempt to take them from her hold. But no one was there. Jackson and Kerry were next to her, hands on their own documents. Tom was in a corning, filming.

The scent of lavender arose, seemingly from nowhere, lingering in the cold air of the room. Her skin grew chilled. Fast. Sudden. She shivered and glanced around, sensing anger and grief. Powerful. Turbulent.

She was just about to ask the others about the anomalies when the papers flew from her hand, drifted straight up in the air a suspended beat, and rained like confetti onto the floor.

Silence hung, heavy and suffocating.

They gaped at the pages littering the rug a good minute before Ava got her wits about her to speak, her voice weak. "I think we can assume Sarah didn't kill herself."

The library door opened and closed. By itself.

The scent of lavender faded.

Several ticks of the grandfather clock passed.

"Bloody hell. Did you get that, Tom?"

"Yep." The camera was still aimed the door.

Ava, needing to move, to do something, bent to retrieve the papers, taking a few moments to put them in order and calm her thumping heart. It was useless. "Maybe her death was an accident. If not, who killed her? Peter? Her father?"

Kerry shook her head. "It could have been the mysterious man. One of the other settlers. Anyone, really. If word got out John Kerrick was part of the British Navy, the Patriots could have retaliated."

"God, I was hoping these would give us more answers." Disappointment clogged Ava's throat.

"It's a start." Jackson's tone was distracted, his gaze scanning the paper he held. "My pages describe Sarah meeting with Peter, taking walks and that sort of thing."

Kerry hummed a noise of noncommitment. "Mine describe the voyage over and building the two homesteads. Written after the fact, by her wording."

"I'm going to print out a copy of these and head over to Fred Sawyer's office." For the first time since they'd read Aunt Lois's will, Ava held a shred of hope, however false it seemed. "Cross your fingers that it's enough."

"Would you like company, luv?"

Ava looked at him, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but all she found was interest and concern in his eyes, in the slight pout of his mouth. It had been a while since anyone, especially a man, had been worried about or interested in her.

She cleared her throat. "No, but thank you."

*~*~*

Ava strummed her fingers on her knee in Fred's office as he read through the printouts of Sarah's journal. He'd been at it for twenty minutes, and anxious anxiety was eating her nerves raw. She'd always found him annoying in an over-achiever, people-pleaser kind of way, and the fact that it was him and him alone who stood between her and her dreams was not helping an iota. Even his tan suit, mustard-colored tie, and perfect part of brown hair were aggravating.

Which was on her, not him. Attention to detail or not, rule-stickler aside, Fred was a good guy who was just doing his job. It wasn't like they were besties or-gag-dating. Her mood was at her own feet and she needed to rein in the impatience.

A grunt, and he set the pages down on his desk between them. He stared at her, eyes round. "Where did you find them?"

"In a hidden compartment in the desk in Peter Trumble's old bedroom."

He shook his head. "That's incredible. What a find. I mean, there are no dates, and just initials on the pages, but you can tell they're from Sarah Kerrick. Based on the entries and what the Phantoms member said about authenticating the journal's age, anyhow."

Thank you, Kerry.

Yep. "When can I sign the deed?"

"Ava." His tone slipped into one used to berate a child, raising her hackles. "This isn't enough, I'm afraid. It doesn't say anything about her death. It doesn't even imply-"

"It gives two people motive for murder." She barely resisted the urge to throttle him. "Is she supposed to come back from the dead to jot down who offed her?"

"No need to be sarcastic."

"There's always room for sarcasm. What, exactly, do you want? You're holding copies of a two-hundred-year-old journal, for christsakes."

He sighed heavily and leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers. "Despite what you think, I want you to keep the mansion. You need better evidence than this. If I sign off now, it gives the Hansens room to contest the will."

Damn it, he was right. The last thing she needed was to be held up in court for the next three years. She had the county people coming out next week to assess the property for an occupancy permit, and the fire marshal was due the same day for whatever mandates they had. That allowed her the rest of the winter to get the mansion up to code to hopefully open Easter weekend.

She stood and began to pace, but she still couldn't shake the claustrophobia sensation of being trapped. Closed in. Little air.

No one supported her decision to keep the estate. Her parents wanted her out of the mansion. Period. Casey, though she'd stood by Ava, thought she was crazy. Now, Jackson, someone she hardly knew, had just today tried changing her mind. Even Aunt Lois had seemed to be sending her a message from beyond by what she'd stated in her will.

Ava had plans, a dream, and she'd see this through, whatever it took. Even if she had to go it alone, which was how this was turning out.

She grabbed her purse and coat from the vacant seat, hating the tears threatening to surface. "I'll be back, Fred."

The cool autumn breeze refreshed her as she walked down the street to her mother's shop from her deflated and alone state. The Phantoms crew was already on to something with their investigations. Heck, they'd found Sarah Kerrick's journal. They would help her. She could do this. She just had to remain focused.

She opened the door to the craft store, but her mother stood behind the counter helping a customer, so Ava walked to the back to check the display cases her mom had in stock for Sarah's journal.

Not a lot to choose from. One was plastic and didn't lock. The other was a glass top with a wood base. She picked it up, examining it. The dimensions seemed deep enough to hold the papers. She'd need a stand to set it on if she wanted to display the journal.

"I'm glad you stopped by. How are you, sugarpea?"

She kissed her mother's cheek. "Good. Will this keep moisture out when locked?"

"Oh sure. That's the model the society uses for documents. I can order you a different size from the catalog if you need?"

"No, this is perfect. Can we add a gold engraving plate to the front?"

Her mother took the box. "Sure. Come in the back."

Ava trailed her mom through the store to the stockroom. She checked out the available fonts on an index card and pointed to an Edwardian Script. "This one."

Pen ready, her mother asked, "And what do you want it to say?"

Her mother's craft store was the town center of gossip. By this time tomorrow, everyone would know their find, including the Hansens. Ava grinned, imagining the look on their pointed little faces. "Sarah Kerrick's journal pages. Dated 1776-1777."

The pen fell from her mom's hand. Her face paled. "Are you..." She cleared her throat. "Serious? Are you serious?"

Oh hell. Guilt pooled in Ava's stomach at her mother's dismay and her mood plummeted. "Mom, this is a good thing. Honest, it is." For good measure, she slipped an arm around her mom's shoulders, forcing a smile for her benefit.

"So, you're keeping the mansion?"

Ava stood a good foot taller, so she rested her cheek on the top of her mom's head. "Not yet, but soon. It's looking good."

"Good," her mom mimicked, her voice hollow.

Squeezing once, Ava let go. She retrieved the pen and scribbled down what she wanted engraved. The color had returned to her mother's cheeks, but her Irish green eyes were staring off into nothing.

Ava swallowed the lump in her throat. "I want this house, Mom."

Her mother's mouth thinned as her gaze slid to Ava's. "I don't see why."

No kidding. Neither did anyone else. Again, emptiness settled in Ava's chest. She was surrounded by people who knew her, who supposedly loved her, but not a one understood. Not a one supported her, even if they didn't agree.

"I have to go. I can pick this up tomorrow."

Before she could say anything she'd regret, or worse, cry, she kissed her mom's cheek and left the shop.

Sucking in a deep breath, she walked two buildings down to the hardware store and asked Ed if he could make her a pedestal stand for the display case. Then she headed for the small market and gathered ingredients to make chicken and dumplings. Her comfort food.

And since she got comfort nowhere else, she'd get it from food tonight.

*~*~*

Jackson pocketed his cell just as Ava walked in the kitchen door, holding two large brown bags. She teetered, trying to balance the packages.

He reached out and took both bags, setting them on the counter.

"Thanks," she mumbled, kicking the door shut.

"Wait. What was that I heard? Did you just say something nice?"

"Not in the mood, Jackson."

She hung her coat on a peg by the door and, when she turned, he took a step back in retreat before he could catch himself.

The absence of fire in her approach was a shock. Moreover, the dejected, hollow void in her gray-blue eyes was unsettling. A daunting shade of storm cloud.

His gaze tracked her long swallow. Such a regal, elegant neck. "What's wrong, luv?"

"The attorney needs more evidence." She shifted to the counter, where she began removing items from the shopping bags.

"You were expecting that, correct?"

She didn't answer, just set each item down on the island with care.

Where was her fight? Her wicked temper? "Ava."

"I'm fine. Where is everyone?" She folded the brown bags and set them aside.

He shoved his fists in his pockets because he wanted to touch her. "Out. They headed into York for dinner."

She stared at the items on the island as if just noticing them. "I was going to make dinner. I guess I still could. It'll keep until tomorrow, I suppose. The crew could just reheat it for lunch." A sheen of tears misted her eyes, pinching something deep in his chest.

Hell. Now she was talking to herself. And about to cry.

He snapped, reaching for her. Then he remembered the stationary video camera and cursed. That was all he needed.

He took her hand and pulled her over to the pantry where they'd be out of sight and off film.

She stared at him, eyes wet. "Why are you here? Why didn't you go to dinner?"

"I didn't know the security code and didn't want to leave the house unattended."

"Right." She nodded. "Very nice of you."

She was back to nice. That wouldn't do. Because he so very badly wanted to hold her, he straightened and crossed his arms. "What's going on? What's got you so upset?"

"I told you, the attorney-"

"Bollocks. There's something else."

She shook her head and closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they were clear, but a strand of wavy auburn hair had broken free of her clip. As unruly and unpredictable as the woman.

And to hell with it. He reached up and tucked the hair behind her ear before letting his hand drop to her shoulder.

"Why are you being nice to me? We don't like each other." She made a move to walk by him, but he planted his hand on the pantry door to block her exit and took a step closer.

"I like you just fine, luv. It's you who has a problem with me."

"The flirting again."

Another step closer, like a gravitational pull. "You haven't seen flirting yet."

She stilled, and he knew, just knew, without a doubt, the fiery temper was a mask to hide her desire. She felt it, too. He could see it in her wide eyes. Evident by the parting of her lips, begging to be kissed. Because he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to breathe, he dropped his hand.

"You let me know when you're ready for the real thing, luv."

She growled. Actually growled. A low, sexy rumble.

His d**k jumped.

"Arrogant jerk."

"Standoffish brat."

Oh yes. The temper was fierce now. The heat radiated off her in cosmic waves. He'd bet everything he owned that they'd be amazing together in bed. She'd give as well as she got. No holds barred. With her height, she'd equal him. Full length of their bodies lined up perfectly, colliding to explosion.

It dawned on him he'd never desired a woman more than he did this one. He didn't even know a heck of a lot about her, not that it had stopped him before. But he wanted to know her.

She shoved at his chest, probably to back him up, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head against the pantry door.

"This what you want, Ava?"

She brought her face toward his, stopping just before reaching his mouth. In a blink, he almost died with want. The air reeked of it. His pants grew tight. His pulse jacked. So close. So close he could count every adorable sexy freckle on her nose. Her breath fanned his cheeks, mingled with his, as their gazes locked.

But then her gorgeous eyes narrowed to slits. "You wish."

A pause and...he laughed. Couldn't help himself. What else could he do? Just laughed. The rumbling drifted from his chest to probably hers with the force.

"Oh yes, I do wish. And so do you." He dropped her wrists and stepped aside with the restraint of a saint. "Again, luv, let me know when you're ready."

He walked over to the island, unnerved, turned on, and sat on a stool, resisting the urge to adjust his throbbing erection. "What's for dinner?"

When she didn't answer, he turned his head.

She was still leaning against the pantry door, her hands pressed against the wood behind her, cheeks pink, and breathing heavily.

Now he knew how to shut her up. He pocketed the knowledge for a future date.

She straightened slowly, but didn't look his way. "I don't sleep with men I don't know."

Funny, he didn't sleep with women he did know. "Come over here and get to know me then. Ask me anything you want." He snapped his mouth shut and rubbed his forehead, appalled by the words.

She made her way over as if by no choice of her own and slid a bottle of Chianti in his direction. "Open please. I need wine."

He preferred a good ale, but he complied as she began washing the chicken breasts in the sink. He poured the white bubbly into two glasses she'd set out and took a sip while watching her.

With the expert grace of a woman comfortable in the kitchen and her environment, she pulled out a pot, starting some kind of sauce that involved broth and herbs he couldn't name, which she cut from pots on the deep windowsill.

"What are we having?"

"Chicken and dumplings."

"I've never had it. Sounds good." Smelled good, too.

She turned to face him, a deep wrinkle between her brows. "You've never had chicken and dumplings?" Her tone indicated just what she thought of that.

He took another sip of wine and shrugged.

Picking up her own glass, she did the same. "It's my comfort food."

"And you're in need of comfort tonight?" He hadn't meant that to come out as husky as it sounded. And damn, but he really had much better forms of comfort he could suggest than food.

She offered him her back as she chopped carrots and celery, then set them into the pot. She added the chicken, and the room filled with the scent of her concoction. Something tingled in his chest, some feeling he couldn't name. Warm, though. Reassuring.

He was so confused. "Do you like sports?"

She moved the pot to a different burner. "No. I find most are barbaric."

He loved soccer, something that he could appreciate in both countries. He told her so, and she shrugged. He'd offered to get to know her better, but she wasn't meeting him halfway.

No worries. "Wine or beer?"

She stirred the pot. "What?"

"Preference. Wine or beer? I prefer beer."

"Oh." She turned the heat down on the sauce. "Depends. Usually wine, but I can pick up some beer tomorrow-"

"Not what I meant." Though the sentiment was nice.

"Oh," she said again, this time quieter. In a bowl, she mixed dry ingredients with egg and water.

"Favorite season?"

"Fall. Pumpkin pie is a weakness. I love the colors and the cool weather. Nice to open the windows and let a crisp breeze in."

The gorgeous oak leaves out front couldn't hold a candle to the auburn shade of her hair. "Summer. Less clothes and it reminds me of the wildflowers at the cottage in Cornwall."

"I always wanted to visit England." Her tone was wistful, sad.

He wondered why, but let the question go for now. She was in her zone cooking and seemed to be in a much better mood. Distraction complete.

He watched her elegant hands at work, wishing she'd use them for something else. Like on his body. She had a lovely one, if he dared say so himself. A great personality and mind to compliment it, too.

The pot on simmer, she sat across from him at the island. She eyed him over the rim of her glass as she drank. "You've traveled to a lot of places. Where's somewhere you've always wanted to go, yet haven't?"

"Home." He said it without thought and immediately flinched. Maybe this place-or Ava herself-was getting to him entirely too much. He shook his head. Knowing an explanation was needed, he backtracked. "I have three places I've lived, but never a home, per se. I'm still looking for it."

That was the most honest he'd ever been with anyone, including himself. Exposed and a little raw, he quickly changed the subject. "Favorite superhero?" It was a trick question. She probably didn't have one or she'd go with the most popular character.

"Flash. He gets stuff done quickly. Gotta appreciate that in a man." She didn't seem to notice his jaw drop as she carried on. "Batman has great toys, but no real powers. Besides, he's all dark and broody. Thor has the hair and the hammer." She sighed dreamily. "Captain America's too goody-two-shoes. Deadpool's good, but doesn't take anything seriously. What are you looking at?"

He pressed a hand to his chest. "I just fell in love a little."

Her mouth twisted. "Why? Because I know my superheroes? I have three godsons."

He shook it off, or tried to. "Puppies or kittens?"

"Puppies."

Falling. "Snowboarding or waterskiing?"

"Neither. Both require an ambulance."

He laughed. Maybe they weren't so different after all. "Favorite movie?"

"The Princess Bride."

His grin spread so wide his cheeks ached. "One of mine also. House on Haunted Hill is a favorite, too."

"Only the Vincent Price version counts."

He patted his chest. "You are gonna make me fall in love with you. Dark or milk chocolate?" He held up a hand. "Be very careful how you answer this. This could be the deal breaker."

She rolled her eyes and huffed a breath, but it was all in good humor because her eyes lit with mischief. "Another stupid question. It's chocolate. It's all tastes good."

"I just fell madly in love with you. Marry me, Ava."

She made a sound of dismissal, grinned, and rose to peek over the top of the pot to check dinner. "Says the serial dater."

He didn't date at all. No time. What was the point in romancing a woman he knew he only wanted one thing from? "Okay, Miss Cynicism. Ideal first date?"

She adjusted and reclaimed her stool, sipping her wine. "Don't tell me there's a serious romantic under all that charm."

"Guilty. Answer the question."

She set her glass down. "I plead the fifth. You'll make fun of me or use it against me to try to get into my pants."

Guilty again. "I promise not to make fun of you."

She tilted her head as she laughed, the sound was warm and inviting. "See? Not answering."

He sighed with dramatic flair. "Okay, fine. And I won't use it to get into your pants. But may I point out, you're wearing a skirt?" A knee-length red skirt with black tights, making him want to peel away the layers. She had great legs. An interstate of them.

She studied him for a few seconds, her expression unreadable. "Watching a movie in my living room with a bowl of popcorn. That's my ideal first date."

Huh. Not what he'd expected at all. "Really?"

"Really."

She picked up her glass and fiddled with the stem. A blush rose over her cheeks and he wondered why that admission embarrassed her.

"Everyone's afraid of my house. Whenever I'm seeing someone, we always go out or sleep at his place. It would be nice to stay in here once and awhile, you know? They don't even walk me to the door."

She was lonely. The thought never would've occurred to him. Ava was an independent woman comfortable in her own skin. She wouldn't need a man to complete her life or companionship to feel fulfilled, but she yearned for it. Simple things like watching TV or waking in the morning were always alone, and that bothered her, at least to a small degree.

Well, hell. That was it. "Come here a sec." He stood, walked to the kitchen door, and held it open.

She blinked at him in surprise. "Where are we going?"

"The yard. Come on then."

She pursed her lips and paused, studying him in that way which made him suspect she was picking apart his motives.

Finally, she rose and checked the pot before meeting him at the door. "Dinner's almost ready. We can't stay out long-"

Arm around her waist, he spun her across the threshold, closed the door behind her, and pinned her against it. His admirable intention of offering her a sweet good-night adieu to make up for her previous dates blew to hell when he pressed his body against hers. All her glorious curves and tall frame meeting his muscles inch for inch ramped his desire from interest to raging.

"What are you doing?" Her whisper ended in a hitch, telling him she felt the pull of attraction, too.

His belly heated. Other parts awakened with vigor.

"Walking you to the door and kissing you goodnight." Framing her face in his hands, he leaned in as her lashes fluttered. "I had a really good time tonight."

And then he did what he'd been wanting to since first setting eyes on her. He sealed his mouth to hers.