Learning Curves

Chapter Five





“Miss?”

After a troubled night with little sleep, Leanne found it hard to summon her typical enthusiasm for her weekly seminar discussions. These small groups were supposed to supplement the larger lectures and allow students to develop their ideas. It would help if some of the students had original notions to expand on. And it probably wouldn’t hurt if more than half of them actually opened their readings.

“Amy. What can I do for you?”

“I have a question about the term paper.”

“Sure.” Turning from the broad desk at the front of the crowded seminar room, she settled against the table as Amy rummaged in her book bag for her laptop.

The young girl opened her laptop and pulled up the beginning of her term paper. A quick read through of the opening lines revealed troubled syntax and a garbled thesis statement. With only a few minutes until her next seminar, there was no way Leanne could help Amy rework her paper right now. They’d have to meet one-on-one.

Leanne reached behind her for her day planner, then flipped through the pages until she could see her schedule for the remainder of the week. Her office hours were already busy, since the end of the term always brought with it a flurry of late-onset diligence, but Thursday might work. She had an appointment with Armstrong at eleven and a committee meeting in the afternoon but maybe earlier in the day?

Amy moaned softly under her breath.

Leanne looked up. “Are you okay?”

The hairs on her neck stood at Amy’s dazed look.

Schooling her face into a mask of friendly neutrality, Leanne turned toward the open doorway. Her diagnosis had been correct. Another case of Brandonitis. If only there was an inoculation against the infection. But thus far, and despite repeated exposure, she was no closer to developing an immunity against him.

“Brandon,” Leanne said brightly, hoping against hope that neither he nor the eighteen suddenly fascinated students noticed the squeak in her voice. If only, she thought, taking in their interest, they showed as much enthusiasm for Blake’s poetry. Clearly, long-dead poets had nothing on the stunning presence of a very much alive hunk.

“Wow,” Amy said sotto voce. She looked from the door to the table where Leanne stood, new respect for her seminar leader in her eyes. “You know him?”

Leanne’s lips quirked at the disbelief evident in the girl’s query.

“Yes.” Making the short list for the Walters Prize didn’t elicit the same envy as being on a first-name basis with someone who looked like Brandon. While she could certainly understand the young woman’s interest, it was her job to present a professional and unflappable front. It wasn’t easy, what with her body still vibrating with lust after their furious kiss last night. But thoughts like that wouldn’t help in her present situation, so she simply gave a noncommittal nod and met him in the doorway.

Brandon at least looked apologetic. “I’m sorry for interrupting you between seminars. I stopped by the English department to drop off your tickets and Cora said you were here, so I thought I might as well bring them by in person. Just to make sure you got them.”

Suppressing a shudder at what the departmental secretary must be thinking after meeting him, she took the tickets from his outstretched hand.

“Thanks. That was very nice of you.”

Cora would be turning her personal, nearly supernatural, relationship radar to the possibility of a juicy interdepartmental encounter. Leanne had no doubt she’d already contacted her Fine Arts counterpart for the full and unadulterated rundown on Brandon Myles, up to and including his primary school transcript, plus key details like his relationship history and personal affiliations. Because there was nothing—no dating disaster, no familial crisis, no potential romance—too small or insignificant to escape the notice of the administrative staff at a university like Wellington.

“It was no trouble. It wasn’t far out of my way.”

The fine arts building was on the other side of campus.

Still trying to close her mind to the image of Cora sifting through her own unsuccessful dating history, she tried to act naturally. “Well, I really appreciate it.” From the tittering and wide-eyed stares of her students, she was pretty certain that plan wasn’t going as well as she might hope for. She slipped the tickets inside her day planner. “What do I owe you for the tickets?”

He scoffed. “They’re a gift, Leanne.”

“I hardly feel…”

“If you don’t use them, they’ll just go to waste. You’re the one doing me the favor here.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I am.” He moved aside as he spoke. The students from her next class began to file in. She gestured apologetically at the new arrivals, all of whom openly gawked at his presence in the room.

“My next seminar starts soon.”

“No problem. I’ll let you get on with your class,” Brandon said easily.

Too easily. The thought popped into her mind before she could crush it. Oh for heaven’s sake, she was trying to get rid of him. She didn’t want him to stay. This was getting ridiculous. He’d entered every aspect of her controlled life. Her teaching, her free time, even her dreams.

Then Brandon did something absolutely unexpected.

Raising a casual hand, he lifted it up to her cheek. He didn’t touch her; it simply hovered millimeters from her face. But his eyes glittered with an unspoken message that Leanne was unwilling to decipher. It was all she could do not to bend her neck and feel the warm strength of his fingers against her skin. Was he trying to say what she thought he was saying? She was giddy and a little breathless at the mere possibility, even though the risk to her carefully laid plans made her feel sick to her stomach.

A one-night stand was one thing.

Even a no-strings-attached affair, where both participants were aware of the rules up front.

But the look in Brandon’s eyes seemed to suggest that he at least might view their one-off encounter not as an end but as the beginning of something more.

He’d bearded Cora in her den.

Visited during seminars.

And withstood the withering curiosity of nearly three dozen undergraduates, whose well-honed noses could sniff out the merest whiff of a hookup.

Those weren’t the actions of a fling, were they?

And if they weren’t, where did that leave her?

Their eyes met and Leanne’s knees shook with lust.

In a low voice he said, “See you tomorrow night, then. I’m looking forward to it.” Turning, he strode from the room, leaving Leanne perplexed and aroused and anxious all at once. Realizing she still clutched her planner to her chest like a life vest, she loosened her fingers from the leather book.

Around her the chatter of the seminar ebbed and flowed. Before she could question the impulse, she darted into the hall.

“Brandon?”

He turned, his satchel slung over one broad shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Do you…I mean, do you have plans for tonight?”

Striding closer, he shook his head.

“You won’t let me pay for these,” Leanne said, holding up the tickets. “But if you’re not busy tonight, a bunch of grad students I know get together every Tuesday for a potluck dinner.”

“Potluck?” His mouth curved into a small smile, as though the word amused him.

She rushed through the invitation before she could change her mind. “It’s just a casual thing. Everybody brings something, and we hang out, eat, maybe watch a movie or play cards.”

“Are you sure?” he asked finally. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing. It’s very flexible. And casual,” she said. Perhaps she’d stressed the word casual a little more than she’d intended, because his warm smile dimmed. “People usually just drop by when they can.”

“What time do things start?”

“Seven, seven-thirty,” she said, hardly believing her own audacity. What was Cassandra going to say when—if—he showed up at her place tonight? How was she going to explain that a one-night stand seemed to be, against her better judgment, morphing into something else entirely? This was a bad idea. A horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad idea that was going to cause her no end of trouble.

She had no time for anything but school right now.

Certainly no time to incorporate a man into her life.

But it was too late to rescind the invitation. Despite her intentions to the contrary, their lives were intermingling in ways she’d never have anticipated Saturday night.

“I’ll be there,” Brandon said. “Why don’t you write down the address for me and I’ll see you tonight.”

“Okay,” she agreed, trying to repress the wide grin determined to break out across her face. “Okay, that’s good, then.”

He smiled back, and this time her grin wouldn’t be controlled. “Very good.” They stood, looking at each other.

“Miss?”

She turned, startled, and saw that her class was assembled, waiting for her to begin the seminar. She hastily scribbled Cass’s address on a sheet of paper, tore it from her agenda and handed it to him. He tucked it in his coat pocket before he loped off down the hall.

As she took her place inside the classroom, she told herself it didn’t matter that he hadn’t looked back.

Except that no matter how hard she tried to focus on the students’ comments during the next hour, the feeling of disappointment didn’t subside.



The temperature had dropped by the time Brandon climbed off the bus that evening. He’d spent the day trying not to go over and over his brief conversation with Leanne, but the memory of her dark eyes and shy smile crept into his thoughts despite his intentions to the contrary.

Shrugging deeper into his coat, he was glad he’d liberated his gloves and scarf from the back of his closet before he’d set out. He tucked the shopping bag under one arm and rummaged for the scrap of paper with the address for tonight’s dinner.

563 Tisdale Ave., Apt. C.

Leanne’s neat writing sloped across the lined paper, as elegant and controlled as she was, he thought fancifully. He could have ridden his ten-speed, but he’d picked up a bottle of wine and hadn’t wanted to show up hot and sweaty, so caught the crosstown bus instead. Looking up at the street sign, he set off. The houses here were older, many with generous porches and tall, mature trees, all bare now against the dark autumn sky. Once upon a time, it must have been a prosperous neighborhood, but it looked a little tired now. Many of the big brick homes were ragged, narrow metal fire escapes revealing their conversion into apartments and student housing.

563 Tisdale looked like its neighbors. The outside light was on as he walked across the porch, its gray paint faded. Pushing open the leaded glass door, he could see the main hallway had been sectioned off. Apartment C was on the topmost level; he climbed the steep stairs, the bag in his hands bumping against his leg with every step. He could hear lively music and chatter, even though the door was closed. Straightening, he knocked and after a moment, the door opened.

The woman on the other side was tall and striking, with cropped hair and a row of fierce-looking piercings running up one ear. Her eyes were discerning and not particularly welcoming.

“Yes?”

“I’m Brandon,” he said by way of introduction. “I hope I’m in the right place. Is this where the potluck’s happening?”

“Yes.”

Her dislike was palpable and for a moment, Brandon was at a loss.

“I brought food,” he said, holding up the cloth bag in a gesture of appeasement. He liberated the wine bottle and handed it to the woman. Her long fingers wrapped around the neck, the electric blue polish on her nails vivid against the dark green glass.

“Hey Cass, do you know where the salad tongs ended up?” Brandon relaxed a little at the familiar voice.

Cass leaned back into the apartment and called, “Check the shelves in the dining room.”

“You sure? I looked there and I couldn’t—” Leanne strode into the entranceway and stopped short at the sight of him waiting in the hall. Several emotions flitted across her face so quickly he couldn’t identify them before she smiled and beckoned him inside. “You made it.”

The hostess relented a little, opening the door wide enough that Brandon could slip in. Leanne made the introductions, her color a little high but her tone friendly. She wore the same dressy sweater and slacks she’d worn during her seminars but had slipped off her dress shoes to reveal a pair of brightly colored polka-dot socks. A quirky and unexpected touch.

“Brandon,” Cassandra said, holding out her hand stiffly. It was a statement, not a greeting. Leanne shot a wary look at her friend and after a moment, she relented enough to feign a smile.

“I brought a salad too.” Reaching into the bag again, he pulled out a large container of couscous salad. It was just a premade salad that he’d picked up from the deli but Leanne’s smile of pleasure sent a thrill through him, and he felt vindicated in the face of the hostess’s restraint.

“Lee?” a voice called from the dining room. “Did you find the tongs?”

“I’ll show you through to the kitchen,” Cassandra offered to Brandon. “Lee, why don’t you help Mohammed get the table set? We’ll eat as soon as you’re done.”

Slipping off his shoes before adding his coat to the top-heavy pile of outerwear balanced on a chair near the entranceway, he padded behind Cassandra into a small galley kitchen, feeling adrift and unsure of himself. The walls were bright yellow and the cupboards had been painted in a riotous Van Gogh-like starburst of colors.

“Let me get you a bowl for that salad,” she said, her voice more welcoming than before. But her shoulders remained tight and she stalked around him in the enclosed space. She set down the wine bottle and pulled out a deep ceramic dish. “The corkscrew’s out already. Stephanie and Jamie brought bottles too.”

“Would you like me to wait to open this then?”

Cassandra shrugged. “If you like.”

“Thank you for hosting this,” he said, searching for some way to thaw the ice.

“It’s hardly a big deal.” There was another awkward pause and then, as if she relented a little, Cassandra said, “Everyone contributes something, which makes it easy and no one has to eat my food. It’s a win-win situation.”

He smiled at her joke. “Then my offerings should fit right in. I’m not renowned for my cooking either.”

They exhausted their share of pleasantries and another awkward silence fell. The chatter and music carried in from the living room, where the rest of the group congregated, but in the kitchen, neither he nor Cassandra spoke. He readied his meager offering in the colorful ceramic dish she’d unearthed for him. “You always coordinate your kitchen with your dishes?” he asked as he emptied the plastic tub into the bowl, and Cassandra shrugged.

“My girlfriend’s got a thing against beige. She says it saps creativity and encourages pedestrian thinking.”

“You talking about me again, darling?” A slight woman with wispy honey blond hair in a loose ponytail danced into the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of Brandon and Cassandra working side by side at the counter.

“You must be Brandon,” she said, smiling widely. “I’m Julia. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Clearly, Julia’s character matched her decorating style, because what she lacked in size she made up for with a bubbly and exuberant personality. Brandon smiled back and found himself engulfed in a fierce hug. Startled, he drew back. He wasn’t used to such affection.

“Likewise,” he said, feeling a little foolish at his discomfort.

Squeezing farther into the kitchen, Julia skipped to the fridge and pulled out a huge bowl of Greek salad. Peeling back the plastic wrap, she balled it up and tossed it in the nearby garbage can. Ignoring Brandon, Cassandra leaned across the small space and filched a large black olive. She popped it in her mouth, smiling. Brandon was amazed at the change it brought to her stern, patrician face. He certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of that charm in their brief acquaintance.

“Hey! Those are for dinner, you thief,” Julia chided.

Cassandra dropped a soft kiss on her girlfriend’s lips. “You still love me.”

Julia groaned. “Sure I love you. Just not your olive breath.” Cassandra laughed, the throaty sound filling the room, and kissed her again. The love and attraction between the two was so palpable he felt a spurt of unease at eavesdropping on their conversation. Neither woman appeared uncomfortable sharing such gestures in front of him. It seemed so easy and routine that he felt a deep twinge of envy. He’d never experienced a relationship like that. Not with his family. Not with any of the women in his past. Not even with his grandmother. He’d never doubted her love for him but she’d been raised in a different time, and physical expressions of love had never been something she’d indulged in much.

But before his feelings of discomfort could deepen, Julia recalled his presence. “If you’re done, bring your bowl out into the dining room, Brandon, and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

He followed her and found himself the object of eight pair of eyes. Only Leanne, arranging cutlery at the far end of the table, didn’t look up.

“Everyone, Brandon. Brandon, everyone!” Julia said, placing her salad on the crowded table. A chorus of greetings met the introduction. He searched for a small corner to set his own contribution—every square inch of the table was covered. Another tossed salad, baked chicken, some sort of gooey pasta casserole, mashed potatoes, homemade cookies and three bottles of wine.

“This looks delicious,” he said honestly, savoring the hearty aromas, and a tall man laughed.

“Wait ’til you try the eggplant parmigiana,” he promised, putting out his hand to shake Brandon’s. “Joe’s nonna makes it. I’m Russell, by the way. PhD candidate in earth sciences.”

Brandon smiled and took the offered hand. “Brandon. Fine arts. Nonna-made, huh? Sounds promising.”

“It promises and delivers.” Russell moved aside as Cassandra came into the dining room. Twelve people made for a tight fit but the good-natured jostling revealed the quarters were familiar to everyone gathered around the table.

“Let’s eat,” Cassandra said. Plates were quickly passed out and steady inroads made into the casual banquet. They trooped into the living room with their overladen plates. It was as cheerfully appointed as the kitchen. This time the walls were a deep, rich burgundy, with busy Middle Eastern hangings scattered across them. One held a battered TV and a large stereo system on an unpainted shelving unit. CDs and LPs were stacked in meticulous columns. Brandon recognized some of the cover art. Someone in the apartment was clearly a serious music fan, if the obscure titles were any indication.

The dining room chairs had been relocated and were already spoken for. Russell sat near the window next to a pretty brunette and a young man Brandon thought was Joe. Julia and Cassandra shared the loveseat. Leanne had claimed a spot on the sofa and as he turned around, he saw that the only space still available was the one next to her. He wondered if she’d saved the seat on purpose, but her expression was so neutral that he thought he ought not let his imagination run away with itself.

He walked over, balancing his plate and cutlery carefully.

“May I sit down?”

Leanne looked up and nodded. “If you like.”

The chesterfield was deceptively deep and he lurched backward as the cushions enveloped him, trying to maintain his equilibrium. A meatball rolled off his plate, leaving a red stain on his clean shirt.

“Damn,” he swore, retrieving it before it could get lost in the upholstery. He stretched out his shirt. Too late to do anything about the mess on his clothes.

Leanne giggled and set her plate on the coffee table. “Here, Fred Astaire,” she said, offering a napkin. “If you dab at it with this, maybe it won’t set in.”

“Fred?” he groused good-naturedly. “If I was channeling him, I’d be a little lighter on my feet. He could dance with a coatrack and make it look good.”

This time she chuckled outright and Brandon felt a spurt of victory at the sound. He didn’t like making a fool of himself but if the payoff was one of those delicious throaty laughs, he could hardly complain.

Balling up the soiled napkins, he settled into the sofa. He tried hard to ignore the beguiling scent of the woman beside him, grateful the plate of food on his lap hid the most egregious of his thoughts. Around them the conversation ebbed and flowed. Russell’s girlfriend, a girl named Emily, who was in political science, came round with the wine bottle, filling up everyone’s glass. The wine was dark and fruity and for once, Brandon found himself content to simply relax and let the evening unfold.

Over dinner, Russell and Mohammed, an engineering student, teased each other about their mutual geekiness, trying to best each other with esoteric words.

“Incunabulum.”

“Definition?”

“A book printed at an early date,” Russell said through a mouthful of lasagna. “Language of origin, Latin.”

“Geez, can’t you come up with something a little more challenging?” Mohammed scoffed. “Incunabulum. I-n-c-u-n-a-b-u-l-u-m. Incunabulum.” He grinned and caught Brandon’s incredulous eye. “Fourth in the Scripps spelling bee two years running. Sadly, Russ never made it higher than what, twelfth?”

“Ninth, as well you know, punk.” Russell laughed. “What about you, man? Ginny went to the Biology Olympiad in Seoul when she was a junior. Seth and Cassandra were both Rhodes scholars.”

Trying not to be intimidated, Brandon shook his head. “Nothing so illustrious, I’m afraid. Not a lot of extracurriculars around my house growing up.” A sudden recollection occurred to him and he smiled. “I did receive a perfect attendance certificate in grade four, if that counts. My grandmother framed it.” He’d forgotten all about the childhood award but now, a memory of standing proudly beside his grandma as she’d balanced on the stepladder and hung the frame on the wall rose up in his mind. She’d taken him out for ice cream at the local Dairy Queen as a reward. The certificate had been lost when her house was dispersed after her death. He hadn’t seen it in over fifteen years, but he remembered its shiny blue seal and his name printed in an elaborate font.

Julia nodded. “I’m the first person in my family to go on to anything after high-school. Nobody quite knows what to make of me.”

Several of the others nodded in acknowledgement then Seth spoke. “And then of course, there’s our girl, Leanne.”

“Me?” Beside him, Leanne stiffened at the comment. “I’m like everyone else. Just working to get my thesis written sometime this century. Find a job. With the job market the way it is, that’ll probably mean teaching a first year survey course at some junior college. A week of Chaucer, a week of Pope. Maybe two on Shakespeare and Austen. If I’m lucky.”

“Lucky?” Seth argued. “You’re a finalist for the Walters ‘I’ve-got-more-money-than-Croesus’ Prize. I guarantee you won’t be teaching at any third-rate institution. You’ll get a primo tenure-track job and a big research grant and settle in as the youngest departmental chair in Wellington History.”

“Even if I win the Walters Prize, I can’t expect to have everything handed to me.”

From beside the stereo, Cassandra laughed. “I love you, Leanne, but sometimes you’re oblivious. Kessler loves you. Rose loves you. You’re the best thing to happen to our department since God knows when, and everyone who’s anyone knows that. You’re on your way up and I don’t think anything could derail you now.”

Leanne smiled at Cassandra’s assessment but Brandon sensed her unease at all the praise her friends heaped on her. They were proud of her success, but how did she feel about shouldering their expectations?

“You’re in the running for the Walters?” he asked quietly when the conversation moved on to a film Ginny and Seth saw over the weekend. He tried to ignore how her hair curled over her shoulders and her warm thigh pressed against his. She shifted, as if uncomfortable at the attention on her accomplishments, and her fine wool trousers rubbed against his worn jeans. The friction distracted him and he focused on her words rather than risk embarrassing himself completely.

“Yeah. I applied last spring and made it onto the short list in October.” She turned and her eyes were imploring. “But there’s no guarantee I’ll win. I’ve tried my best, of course, and I think my research is important but…”

“There’s no guarantee,” he finished.

“Exactly,” she said.

“When do they interview you?”

“Next week,” she said. “My advisor’s been pulling his hair out for weeks, trying to get me ready. Faculty members keep stopping me in the hall, to give advice, suggest trial question or wish me luck. I understand why they’re doing it, of course, but a part of me wishes they’d just let me get on with it, you know?”

“It’s a big deal. You’re a big deal to your department and the university,” Brandon said. “You should have heard Cora today, when I stopped by.”

“She talked about me?” Leanne took a sip of wine. She squirmed, wriggling awkwardly in the deep cushions.

“It’s a big deal,” Brandon repeated, trying to reassure her. But it only seemed to make her more uneasy. Deciding to drop the subject for now, until he better understood her concerns, he tuned in to the other conversations around them

Cassandra was still talking about the Walters Prize, enumerating the hoops Leanne had jumped through over the past seven months.

“You keep mapping out my career, Cass.” She stood. He’d grown to like the feel of her next to him. He comforted himself with the observation that t when she was standing in front of him like this, he had a great view of her very fine ass. “I’m going to help myself to another plate. Anybody want more wine?”

“I’ll have a glass of red,” Brandon said.

“Me too.” Ginny picked up her empty glass from beside her chair leg.

“Me three,” Julia chimed in.

“Why don’t I just bring the bottle?”



By the time the food had been devoured and the wine bottles drained, Leanne’s nerves were at their breaking point. Brandon fit in among her friends better than she could have hoped. Or feared. She watched as he traded jokes back and forth with Joe and then offered his opinion on the latest obscure musician in Cassandra’s gargantuan collection.

He melded in effortlessly. That was a serious problem if she was going to keep this whole thing filed under the casual heading where it needed to be contained.

Steven had never been interested in attending these informal gatherings. He preferred meeting with established faculty at events with more cachet. But Brandon seemed genuinely pleased to be included and had gone out of his way to get to know the other invitees too.

Leanne envisioned other gatherings, other events. Seth and Joe’s infamous poker nights. Gilly’s family cottage during the reading week. They could hike and cross-country ski during the day and laze in front of the fireplace at night, watching a movie side by side.

It was all too perfect, really. Because as much as she might long for a relationship with a man like Brandon, she knew it could never come to fruition. Her career came first. The sacrifices she’d made to reach this point were too many and too involved to be shoved aside at the first pretty face.

Yet just before midnight, when Brandon stood and stretched, a narrow wedge of hard abs flashed into view and Leanne swallowed, her mouth dry. He wasn’t just pretty, he was utterly gorgeous.

He patted his flat stomach and grinned at the hostesses. “Julia. Cassandra. I need to get going but thanks for a great evening. I couldn’t eat another bite and I’m apt to fall asleep on your very comfortable sofa and embarrass myself by drooling. Or snoring.”

He flashed a quick glance at Leanne and when their eyes met, she bit her lips to keep from defending his sleeping habits. After all, they hadn’t actually slept together, not overnight. She’d squeezed her eyes shut on Saturday night when the pleasure he’d inflicted on her willing body had become too overwhelming to bear. But that wasn’t sleep and…

The room had gone silent. Leanne came out of her daydreams with a jolt. Twelve pair of eyes were fixed on her and she realized she and Brandon had somehow become the focus of her friends’ attention. The guys looked perplexed by the expectant silence but the girls’ expressions were far too knowing for her comfort.

“You’re welcome anytime, Brandon,” Julia offered enthusiastically. When Cassandra didn’t utter the same assurances, she nudged her.

“And I’d love to see that pressing of the Davis sessions you mentioned,” Cass finally said and while her tone still conveyed reserve, a note of grudging respect boded well for a continuing thaw in relations. “Bring it next time.”

“I’d like that.” He paused, the brief silence quickly filled by goodbyes from the remaining guests. Leanne struggled to find something casual to say.

“Well, I’ll let you get going,” she finally offered. Even as the inane words came out of her mouth, she wanted to slap her palm to her forehead. Four languages, two and a half university degrees and this was the best she could come up with? The only way she could salvage her dignity was through escape. “I’m going to start cleaning up.”

“No,” Julia said loudly. Moderating her tone, she continued, “No, you don’t need to do that. You walk Brandon downstairs, okay?”

A conspiratorial glance passed between Ginny and Julia, and Leanne conceded defeat. She made her way to the front door to hunt down his coat. It wasn’t easy to ignore the six-foot-plus man trailing behind her but she tried

“Is this it?” she asked, pulling out a leather jacket. She could smell the woodsy tannins emanating from the jacket. They reminded her of just how close she’d gotten to the jacket—and the man inside it—last night, when they’d kissed in the rain.

As if he read her mind, Brandon’s eyes darkened and he edged nearer. He wrapped his fingers around hers, so they were both holding the jacket together. “Yes,” he said, his hand tightening. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, good,” she replied, trying hard to remember the mechanics of respiration. It went something like breathe in, breathe out, right? She inhaled another delicious lungful of Brandon and the scent made her woozy with desire. Leanne’s blood popped and fizzed through her veins like champagne. Desire made her brain sluggish, all thoughts but Brandon scattered and ephemeral.

“Will I see you tomorrow night?” Leanne was confused.

“Tomorrow?”

“The tickets.”

“Oh, right,” she finally said. “We’ll be there. Eight o’clock, right?”

“Eight o’clock,” he agreed, pausing as though he wanted to say something else. “We?”

“We what?” He had this effect on her—as soon as he was in sight, or even worse, touching distance, her brain turned into hormonal mush.

“Are you bringing someone to the show?”

Don’t read too much into it, Leanne. He’s just being polite, she warned herself, but her pulse still sped up, beating with an erratic staccato rhythm. “My dad. I’m bringing my dad tomorrow.”

Brandon’s expression didn’t change but something in his eyes hinted at…relief? “Then I look forward to meeting him,” he said, bending his head as he did so. His lips brushed her cheek, just next to the corner of her mouth, and she froze. She desperately wanted to turn her head and allow their lips to meet. She remembered their first kiss in the green room, when she’d grabbed at his dressing gown and hauled him toward her. She’d only thought of her own need then. Now she had to keep the bigger picture in mind. She couldn’t get carried away, no matter how much she wanted to allow herself to succumb to the temptations on offer. So she submitted to his tantalizing gesture, relishing the feel of his mouth against her skin and his wine-scented breath on her cheek, but drawing back quickly, before he could get the wrong idea.

Brandon straightened and took his jacket from her petrified fingers. Pulling his scarf from the sleeve, he shrugged his coat on and wrapped his throat securely. He opened the door but paused on the threshold.

“I had a good time tonight,” he said. Leanne was still rooted to the spot but he didn’t comment on her rigid immobility.

“G-good. I’m glad.”

He cocked his head. “Are you? Really? So why do I find that hard to believe?”

There was nothing Leanne could say in the face of his keen observation. Silence was the best—the only—course open to her. It didn’t seem to offend him. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.” He leaned down and placed a quick kiss on her cheek, light and fleeting. He didn’t try for anything else, retreating to a respectable distance before Leanne could even form the wish for more.

“Good night, Leanne. Thanks for inviting me.”

He turned and loped easily down the narrow stairs.