The Third Kiss by Leanna Wilson

Author:Leanna Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

“I don’t like your outfit.” Matt greeted Brooke at the door without so much as a hello kiss. If they were going to break up then they might as well get to it.

Although he wished he could tell her how the burgundy silk dress, which brought out auburn highlights in her dark brown hair, suited her. He imagined she would taste exotic, like warm, sweet wine. He yearned to kiss her and run his hands over her smooth, sensual curves. He wanted to cup her—

“Yes, you do,” Brooke contradicted him, effectively dousing his thoughts with a bucket of confusion.

They were supposed to disagree, but he couldn’t follow her logic. “What?”

“Remember…yesterday?” She turned away from his grandmother and gave him a conspiratorial look that hinted he should agree with her.

But they’d agreed to disagree, to argue, to break up! They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other yesterday at all. What was she doing?

“No…” He dragged out the word, hoping for inspiration, hoping to figure out what the heck she was doing.

“Sure you do.” She ran her hands down the skirt, molding the material to her thighs, making his gut clench. “I showed you this dress, and you said it was perfect. Besides it goes nicely with your muted-blue tie.”

“Uh—” She had him there. Their outfits did work well together. They worked well together. Maybe too well.

Sparks definitely ignited when they kissed. And they agreed instead of disagreed. But that didn’t mean anything. It simply meant that they weren’t following the plan.

“We don’t have time to find something else for her to wear,” Eliza Cutter snapped. “The photographer is waiting. This way!” She led them into her favorite room—the library.

Matt could still detect the scent of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco lingering in the air, even though he’d been gone for more than a year. Lincoln Cutter had spent many evenings in this very room. Now his grandmother kept it as her dear husband had liked it. She could often be found here, remembering, reliving memories.

“What are you doing?” Matt asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Brooke looped her arm through his. “Having our picture taken for the official engagement photograph.”

He didn’t buy it. Something was up.

Frowning, he pulled her closer and caught a whiff of an exotic fragrance lingering on her skin. He had a sudden urge to nuzzle her neck. “I didn’t see your dress yesterday or—”

“Matt,” his grandmother interrupted their whispering, “sit here in your grandfather’s leather chair. And, Brooke, dear, why don’t you sit on the arm?”

The photographer stood between anchored lights, his head bent as he fiddled with his camera. Matt assumed that the guy who was adjusting the lights to shine right in his eyes, blinding him momentarily, was the photographer’s assistant. He refrained from complaining about the heat, the brightness or the way his pretend fiancée was snuggling against his side, making him hot and bothered. He tugged on his collar, which seemed to have shrunk around his neck like a noose. This was his grandmother’s show, and he wouldn’t spoil it.

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