I found the conversation flowed easier between us than I would have thought. Travel, business, hobbies, safe topics that still hinted at the things we had in common. Turned out we were both interested in humanitarian work.
I took a deep breath, enjoying both the conversation and the wine. He had grown into a generous and kind man. Maybe it had something to do with being raised by two women. His mom and sister hadn’t just fawned all over him—they had built him up, never letting him get complacent, but made sure he knew he was smart and capable, instilling in him a confidence that helped him become the man he was today.
As we sat and talked, sipping our wine, I couldn’t help but be reminded of some of the memories we had shared over the years. While Cannon was refilling my wineglass, a smile crossed my lips at a particularly sweet memory . . .
? ? ?
“Hey! Give me back my backpack, Cannon!” Placing one hand on my slim hip, I’d held the other out toward him, trying to muster as much authority as I could.
I was twelve and had recently started my first period. My pink Hello Kitty backpack held my stash of pads in a secret compartment inside. The last thing I wanted was Allie’s little brother finding them. Gross! I’d be mortified.
“My mom said I’m the man of the house. It’s my ’sponsibility to carry all the bags, open all the doors, and treat women with respect.” He straightened his posture, hoisting my backpack higher onto his slight shoulder.
Ugh. Cannon could be a real pain in the behind sometimes. We were waiting outside the school for my mom to pick us up, and he was loaded down with not only his Captain America backpack, but Allie’s bag and lunchbox too. He looked like a pack mule.
“Give it here.” I motioned again. “I can carry my own bag.” My grandma said I didn’t need a man to do anything for me, and besides, Cannon wasn’t even a man yet. He was only eight years old.
His gaze flashed over to Allie, and she nodded once.
“Fine,” he said, handing my bag over with reluctance. “Here you go.”
Relieved, I clutched the bag to my chest, a little surprised that I wasn’t actually mad at Cannon. As far as boys went, he wasn’t all that bad . . .
? ? ?
“You doing better?” Cannon asked, his gaze moving over me.
I bit my lip and nodded. “I guess it was obvious I was freaking out before, huh?”
“We don’t have to do this.”
“What?” I murmured.
“Any of this. We can go back to pretending this chemistry buzzing between us doesn’t exist. I won’t pressure you.”
His words should have calmed me, but instead they irritated, grating against my skin. I didn’t want to pretend anymore. I was sick of being a coward and calling it caution, prudence, restraint. That was the old Paige. Afraid to try anything new, living inside a bubble. On the slippery side of thirty and still single—with a stray dog instead of the stereotypical cat, but still, just as sheltered and pathetic. The new Paige was adventuresome and daring. At least, she wanted to be.
“No.” I shook my head. “This was my idea. You’re not pressuring me.” I leaned forward and set my wineglass on the table in front of us. “I’m just not sure how to . . . start.”
“That’s my job, princess.”
Princess? I didn’t hate that nickname as much as I probably should have. I hadn’t been anyone’s princess in a long time. Or ever, as the little voice inside my head reminded me. Cannon had called me that growing up, but it was meant in fun, to tease and taunt. This new, adult version of the boy I remembered was filled with surprises.
His eyes were dark and filled with unspoken passion. And his full, perfect mouth was tilted in a slight smile. He was so ridiculously sexy that my stomach tied into knots whenever I just looked at him.
I was still nervous. But come on . . . this was Cannon. I’d known him for more than twenty years. He wasn’t going to hurt me, or disappear in the morning and never call again. We’d share this house for the next couple of months, probably make pancakes on Saturday mornings and laugh about the time we got it on. We’d get the attraction out of our systems and move on. It was merely scratching an itch.
He placed his wineglass next to mine, then leaned closer, tracing his fingertips lightly over my jaw before drawing my face toward his.
This was it.
He was going to kiss me.
It was time to show him that I was more than capable of a one-night stand without falling in love—either that or scurry back to my room, alone and afraid. Those were my two choices. Unless the fire alarm decided to sound in the next four seconds, his full lips were going to be on mine.
Making the split-second decision to put my money where my mouth was, I leaned in.