“You get a little crease, right here, when you’re angry.” He taps my forehead between my eyes. “I know. I’ve seen it in a lot of meetings. And every time your sister looked at me today, tried to show off for me, that crease might as well have been permanently tattooed.”

Taking a deep breath, Graeme steps closer until he’s less than an arm’s length away. He’s bigger than I am and his body towers over me in the cramped space, but there’s a hesitancy to his posture. A vulnerability I haven’t seen before. He swallows. “You gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, you might feel the same way about me as I feel about you.”

“How do you feel about me?” I whisper.

“Usually? Irritation and an extreme urge to shove a whipped-cream pie in your face. But also, desperation. Desire. And, fuck, I want to kiss you.”

Graeme Crawford-Collins wants to kiss me.

I’m dizzy with the knowledge. His face swirls in my vision.

What would the stubble on his jaw feel like against my cheek? A rough graze or a tender caress? What do his lips taste like—some strange, forbidden fruit of spice and honey, or a burst of mint as brisk and sudden as a spring snow? And how would the flavor of him pair with his heady, masculine scent?

I imagine inhaling deeply at the crook of his neck before sampling his lips. Why yes, sommelier, you were right. Cedar with notes of grapefruit, a nice mouthfeel, and a strong, smooth finish.

I sway, and grasp handfuls of his shirt—an anchor in this bewildering tableau. My knuckles curl against the firm muscles of his chest. His palm snakes around to the back of my neck, fingers entwining in my hair.

“May I?” he whispers. His lips ghost against mine, only the suggestion of space between us.

Pulling back a fraction, he pauses.

He’s waiting for an answer.

There’s heat and longing and curiosity and desire, and for once, I don’t want to say no. My eyes flutter closed.

Yes.

Then the cabin door bangs open, and I launch away from Graeme like I’ve stepped on a box full of mousetraps. The back of my knees jam into my bed and I tumble onto the mattress in a flail of limbs.

Walsh is standing in the doorway.

She blinks at us, pulls an about-face, and practically runs out of the room.

17

Walsh, wait.”

I’m out of the cabin before I can think twice. The tie around my waist is dangerously loose and the neck of my robe has fallen open to expose more cleavage than I’m comfortable sharing with the general public. Yanking my robe together and cinching my belt, I jog after her.