His hands tightened on me, crushing me closer. His lips parted, then our tongues were sliding against each other. With a low moan, I slid a hand into his thick hair and clenched. God, the man could kiss. He sat me on the crate, his hard body pressing between my legs. The kiss was hot and fiery—nipping, licking, scorching.

“Damn, you smell like green apples,” he said against my lips before he took my mouth again.

I absorbed everything, every intense second. I felt alive, electric. I was painfully aware of his scent, his taste, the intoxicating scent of him.

Then we broke apart and he pressed his forehead to mine. “Fuck. I knew you’d be trouble.”

“I didn’t plan this.”

His hands clenched on me. “I know.” He released a breath. “I don’t get involved with people I work with.”

“Me too.” I swallowed. “So, we’ll just have to do better ignoring this…thing.”

“You mean raging attraction? And the memories from the masquerade that haunt me every damn second of the day?”

I sucked in a sharp breath. He thought of us together every day?

He cursed.

Pressing a hand to his chest, I wriggled to stand. He lowered his arm, my feet touched the ground, and I managed to stumble. My hand gripped his shirt and I felt buttons pop off and ping on the floor.

I groaned. “Sorry. Could anything else go wrong? Maybe we’ll get hit by a meteor.”

He made an amused sound, then his warm hand curled around my elbow. “I think if they reach the ground they’re called meteorites.”

“Flying hunk of space rock. Whatever.” I sniffed. “I am sorry about your shirt.”

“Don’t worry. It’s only a bespoke tailored shirt by Huntsman. Let’s sit down.” He sat on one of the wooden crates and patted the space beside him.

I grimaced and sat. I wasn’t entirely sure sitting this close to him was a good idea. “I don’t know what Huntsman is.”

“The best tailor on Savile Row in London.”

Crap. I’d ruined a gazillion-dollar shirt. His cologne hit me again, along with the heat pumping off him. “So, I bet you can’t wait to see what I have planned for an encore?”

A laugh escaped him, and I stilled. The sound was deep, sexy, and it hit me in places it definitely shouldn’t.

“I’ve been in worse places,” he said.

“Really?”

Clearly I didn’t hide my skepticism very well.

“Yes, Ms. Ashford. My father’s last wedding comes to mind.”

I thought it prudent not to mention I’d seen photos of that wedding. On a beach, with the very young bride in a tiny bikini top and flowy sarong skirt. The older Langston’s antics often made the tabloids.