And the sounds lurch us back to reality, wrenching us from whatever the hell that was. Staggering apart, we ricochet like repellent magnets, Jamie smacking his head on a shelf as I stumble backward and make a pile of towels rain down on us.

“So sorry,” he mutters, staring at me wide-eyed. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know what I was thinking—”

“Me neither,” I whisper, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Before he can respond, the door flies open, Jean-Claude smiling triumphantly with Jules and a crowd behind him. “What is this, eh?”

“Nothing,” Jamie says, not once looking at me as he steps out of the closet like he can’t get out of there fast enough. “Excuse me.” Heading straight for the stairs, he disappears down them.

Nothing. Even though it shouldn’t, his dismissal stings.

I thought I couldn’t be any more humiliated tonight. But, of course, Jamie Westenberg has once again proven me wrong.

· FOUR ·

Jamie

Home in the dark, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I can’t sleep. When I shut my eyes, all I see is Beatrice in my arms. Those sky-blue-slivered-with-grass-green eyes, cloud gray swirling the perimeter. That delicate ink sweeping over her trapezius muscle, disappearing beneath the plunging neckline of her dress. The fabric cinched at her waist that my hands ached to unzip, to feel every rib, the slope of her hips, then draw her close and—

Meow.

I peer down at my cats at the foot of the bed, twin pairs of lantern eyes in the dark.

“You’re right,” I tell them. “Best to nip that thought in the bud. That woman is a tattooed tornado of flying cocktails and unsolicited astrological commentary. We could not be more different or unsuited.”

And I almost kissed her.

God, what was I thinking?

“I wasn’t thinking,” I explain to the cats. “That’s the problem. All the more reason never to see her again.”

The cats let out another pair of meows.

“Well, that’s a fair point. With Jean-Claude and Juliet engaged now, I’m bound to see more of her.” I sigh and scrub my face. “I’ll just have to stay very, very busy with work.”

The cats have no reply to this. I have no answers, either, for this dilemma or for what happened in that closet. We could barely hold a conversation before we were trapped together, and what we did manage was a model social crash-and-burn.

So why did I want to kiss her?

And why did it feel like she wanted to kiss me back?

Groaning, I shut my eyes and begin cataloging every bone of the human body. Usually it puts me right to sleep. A physician’s version of counting sheep.

But even that doesn’t work. Because as I name each one, I picture where they belong on Beatrice.

Clavicle. Shadows kissing her collarbones.

Mandible. Her jaw clenched, pursing her soft lips.