Winter's Kiss

“What story?” she asked, still smiling at him.

Holy hell, this was going to be a long night. “About how your cousins forced you to get drunk.”

Laughing as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, she fell back against the couch, breasts bouncing, bare legs stretched out. She had a low, throaty laugh, the kind that scraped pleasantly along a man’s nerve endings.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, still chuckling. “They didn’t force me to get drunk. They forced me to go to the club. After dinner they told me we were going home but instead, we ended up at The District.”

The District being one of Houston’s most popular dance clubs, less than a mile from here. “I stand corrected. Although I’m a little confused as to why you stayed at the club if you didn’t want to be there.”

“I was going to leave,” she said as she got unsteadily to her feet, bringing their bodies much too close for Oakes’s comfort, “but then the DJ played ‘Uptown Funk’ and it’s impossible to hear that song and not dance so I had to get on the dance floor.”

“Right.” He tried to put some distance between them but only managed to collide with the coffee table when he stepped back. He shifted to the right then circled around the sofa. “None of that explains why you came here,” he said as he walked behind the granite-topped island, which separated the kitchen from the living room. “Why you’re not still with your cousins.”

“It doesn’t?”

A headache began to form behind his right eye. “No.”

“Oh.” She flopped back down, crossed her arms on the back of the couch and watched as he opened an upper cabinet for the coffee. “Well, I’m not with my cousins because Julie and Steph went home early—Julie’s husband has to work in the morning and Steph’s youngest has an ear infection. Then Nadine took off in a huff after getting into an argument with her boyfriend via text and the last time I saw Michelle she was dirty dancing with a leggy blonde in a leather miniskirt.”

Frowning, he measured out coffee beans, dumped them into the grinder. “They shouldn’t have let you drink so much if they were just going to ditch you. One of them should have made sure you got home safely.”

She laughed again, but didn’t raise her head from her arms. “I’m twenty-three years old, Oakes. I can drink as much as I like. And, anyway, I’m perfectly safe, aren’t I?”

“Safe,” he pointed out, pouring distilled water into his coffeemaker, “but not home.”

Still not moving her head, she waved a hand. “I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to see you.”

His shoulders tensed, his fingers tightened on the plastic bottle. “What do you mean? I thought you just needed to use the bathroom.”

“Why would I come here in the middle of the night just to use the bathroom?”

He had no idea and no, it didn’t make sense when she said it like that. But neither did her dropping by his place, drunk, at three in the morning.

Then again, women were a mystery so what the hell did he know?

“What did you want to see me about?” he asked, turning on the coffeemaker. When she didn’t answer, he turned to find her eyes closed. “Daphne?” Nothing. “Daphne?” he repeated louder.

She blinked at him then smiled dreamily. “Hmm?”

Right. This obviously wasn’t getting him anywhere. “We’ll put your coffee in a travel mug,” he said, pulling one out of a drawer.

“Okay. Am I going somewhere?”

“Home.” But that only brought up the issue of him getting her into her apartment—a third-story walk-up across town—and into bed.

She snuggled back down into her arms, shut her eyes. “Don’t wanna,” she murmured.

And getting her up the stairs and into that bed would be even more difficult without her cooperation. Hell. Being a nice guy just didn’t pay some days.

“Life’s tough that way,” he said, not sure if he was talking to her about doing things she didn’t want to, or himself for his incessant need to always do the right thing.

He headed toward the hall only to stop at the sound of someone knocking on his front door.

“If that’s another drunk woman,” he muttered, “I’ll tell her the bathroom’s closed for the night.”

Daphne stirred. “Did I tell you I didn’t pay the cab driver?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he managed to say from between clenched teeth, “You failed to mention that.”

But her head was back down, her eyes shut. Another knock, this time louder.

“One minute,” Oakes called then hurried into his bedroom for his wallet. Two minutes later he’d paid the understandably irritable cab driver—adding a hefty tip—and shut the door. He leaned his head against the cool wood, gathering his thoughts. The scent of coffee filled the air. He’d dump some into the mug, haul Daphne to her feet and settle her into his car. Forty-minutes—fifty, tops—and he’d be back home and in his bed, trying to forget this ever happened.

But when he lifted his head and turned, he saw all those hopeful plans go up in smoke. Daphne was asleep. Or, passed out if the sound of her snores was anything to go by. And there was no way in hell he was carrying her.

Looked like he had himself an overnight guest.

He locked the door and shut off the porch light, then crossed to the kitchen and turned off the coffeepot before he got a blanket from the linen closet. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let her stay crumpled up like that, her neck bent at an awkward angle, her legs curled under her. He wiped his tingling palms down the front of his jeans as he studied her, tried to figure out how to make her comfortable with the least amount of touching possible—though any contact seemed inappropriate given her current state.

Deciding to start at the bottom—and pray like hell the rest of her straightened out of her own accord—he wrapped his fingers around her ankles and slowly swung her legs around.

She snored on.

He went to encircle her waist only to yank his hands back when he brushed the silk of her dress. He considered slipping his arms under her, but didn’t want to take the chance of accidentally touching her butt. Not when he’d admired it only a few minutes ago. He could take a hold of her shoulders, but that would bring him close to those amazing breasts, to her open mouth.

In the end, he settled on taking her by the ankles again, this time gently pulling her until she slid onto her back on the cushions. His plan worked great, except her dress had slid up, showing a great deal more of her bare thighs. Keeping his gaze firmly on her face, he unfolded the blanket over her, tucking one end under her chin, the other over her toes.

He straightened. It was easier to look at her with all those curves covered. Easier, much easier to remember how young she was with her face relaxed, her mouth open, one hand curled by her cheek.

Easier to remember all the reasons he shouldn’t want her.

But he couldn’t stop himself from brushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead, then letting his finger trail ever so slightly over her arched eyebrow before he turned off the light and went to his room. Yanking off his sweatshirt, he tossed it aside then fell facedown on his bed, his feet hanging over the edge. He pulled a pillow over his head, but that did little to help him forget about the woman on his couch. The woman he thought about way too often. The one woman he wanted above anyone else.

The one woman he could never have.

* * *

SOME KNUCKLEHEAD WAS singing along to a Mumford and Sons song. Loudly. And badly.

Daphne would have covered her ears but really, lifting her arms at what had to be an ungodly hour was just too much effort. She settled for pressing her face into her pillow. It might not mute the sound, but if she kept it there long enough, maybe she’d suffocate. Either way would end her misery.

The idiot chose that moment to attempt a bit of harmonizing with a particularly high note, causing her back teeth to ache. Talk about freaking torture. Honestly, some people were so rude. Singing this early with no thought or care that other people were trying to sleep.

Jeesh.

She snuggled farther into the mattress, but instead of the softness of her sheets, she encountered smooth, cool leather. Shifting her leg to the right, she bumped something hard. She frowned. That wasn’t right. There should be ample empty space in her king-size bed. Of course Cyrus, her golden retriever, took up a great deal of it but that hadn’t been his large, warm body, either.

Even racking her sleep-laden brain it took her a moment, surely longer than it should have, to figure out she wasn’t at her apartment, wasn’t all cozy and safe in her bedroom. She wasn’t even in a bed.