New Year's Resolution: Romance!. Leslie Kelly

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      “Ashley,” he said now, his voice quiet. “Will you look at me?”

      See? Even now he overcame her reluctance. Though she didn’t want to, she found herself turning to face him. “What?”

      “You don’t have to come back to the estate,” he said. “If you don’t want to go through with our deal, I won’t hold it against you.”

      But it would go against her resolution! She couldn’t say no to the first thing that came along during her year of yes, right? Walkers weren’t cowards. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m fine. I’m not afraid or anything. A deal’s a deal. Walkers don’t renege.”

      Her face heated. She was babbling, right? He had to realize she was babbling.

      His eyes were doing that binocular/dual microscope thing again, giving her the feeling he was watching every doubt flash through her brain, every desire cross her heart. “Ashley?” he said, his voice so soft it was almost tender. “Should we talk about last night’s kiss?”

      She jolted, the backs of her knees hitting the end of the bed. “Oh, no. Not necessary. Not at all. New Year’s. Just a midnight kiss.” Then she whirled to toss her clothes into the case.

      Her palms were sweating and her heart was hammering, as they used to do when she was poised at the top of a black diamond run. It was then Ashley realized that though the Walkers might be brave, it didn’t mitigate the bad feeling she had that all the courage in the world wouldn’t keep her free from danger.

      * * *

      CHASE DESCENDED ON the breakfast buffet the next morning in a cheerful mood. His guests had enjoyed themselves the day before, settling in and then venturing to the third floor to check out the goings-on in the playroom. Even the most reserved of them had ended up devising elaborate communities from the bricks, blocks and railroad parts. A contemporary of his father’s, Declan Hart, had talked another man into a joint development, and Chase couldn’t help but laugh when they decided to charge a fee to anyone wanting access to the amusement park they’d built.

      The fourteen dollars that had been collected was promised to charity, but Chase wouldn’t be surprised if Declan didn’t consider his pocket a legitimate 501(c)(3).

      Ashley had seemed to have a good time, too. She’d constructed a fantastical skyscraper upon which butterflies built of plastic blocks had decided to roost. It reminded him of her flower arrangements: colorful, eye-pleasing and worth a second look.

      As was she, of course. He hadn’t dropped his intention of getting her into bed.

      But yesterday he’d left her mostly alone, allowing her a chance to catch her breath. He’d known she was nervous after their New Year’s kiss, so his strategy was to back off. Just a little.

      His conscience wasn’t bothered in the least by making this play. At her house, he’d given her ample opportunity to back out of the hostess deal. She could even have lied and expressed distaste of his kiss. He wouldn’t have pushed any further then.

      But he remembered her taste and her trembling body at midnight. And he’d watched her pack her bag and come with him anyway. This attraction wasn’t one-sided.

      As if to underscore that fact, when he entered the dining room, his gaze went directly to her, standing by the sideboard. Her eyes hit his, too, and he saw her twitch at the same time that becoming color flushed her face. She was dressed in tight dark jeans and brown boots. A long, oatmeal-colored thin-knit sweater covered her torso, but when she turned back to continue filling her plate, he saw that the loose garment buttoned up the back. It was half sliding off one shoulder, revealing more creamy skin and parts of a skinny-strapped tank top.

      “Good morning,” he said, strolling up to her side. As yet, they were the only two in the room.

      “Morning.” She kept her head down as she scooped up Mrs. Erwin’s famous egg-and-potato scramble.

      “Again, great job last night. Thanks for getting the washer and dryer going when Lynn wanted to take care of that spill on her corduroys.”

      “No problem.” As she sidestepped to get to the next chafing tray, the ends of her hair swept across her shoulder blades and he wondered what they would feel like tickling his naked chest.

      Then he wished he hadn’t wondered, because the idea of nakedness and him and her was leading to other thoughts. Before breakfast. When they were in the dining room and both fully clothed.

      Damn, but she got to him.

      He cleared his throat. “Still, I didn’t expect you to take on laundress duties.”

      She peeked at him through her thick lashes. Her eyes were still that winter-water blue. “No problem.”

      “So accommodating,” he murmured, and smiled at her with a wiggle of his brows.

      A dimple poked a little dent in her cheek. Triumph! he thought. His small foray into flirtation didn’t immediately turn her shy.

      “What’s the agenda for today?” she asked.

      He followed her to the table, where he placed his plate beside hers. Then he reached for the nearby carafe and poured her a cup of coffee. “Did you know it’s National Science Fiction Day?”

      There was that dimple again. “I had no idea.”

      Seated, she unfolded her napkin and spread it across her lap. He liked how she moved, precise and controlled. The man in him wanted to destroy that precision, wreak havoc on that control. If he brushed aside her hair and nuzzled her neck, would she drop her fork? Would he taste the heat on her skin?

      “...Chase?”

      Taking the chair beside hers, he forced his mind away from fantasy. Take it easy, Bradley. You’ve got hours before you can get her alone to do what you’ve been dreaming of. “Sorry. Say again?”

      “What are we doing on National Science Fiction Day?”

      Lifting his coffee, he blew across the top, hoping it would cool him down some, too. “Not that much, really. The library has been raided for all the Ray Bradburys and Ursula K. Le Guins, etcetera. They’re upstairs, along with an easel and an oversize pad of paper. For those to whom inspiration strikes, we’re to try our own fiction story, one sentence at a time.”

      “How?” She frowned, putting a crease between her brows.

      He rubbed at the little line with his forefinger, and a jolt transferred from her flesh to his and back again. When she gasped, he just said, “Yeah,” and dropped his hand.

      “Chase...”

      His steady gaze met her anxious one. “Yeah,” he repeated with a little more force. “I felt it, too.”

      When she shifted her glance to her plate, he continued on as if the moment hadn’t happened. “To answer your question,” he said, “one person writes a sentence, then a second person picks up the pen. I think there’s a rule that there must be three additional sentences before the first author can write another, but I’m not going to count.”

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