“I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “Maybe I’ll find something closer to home after all.”
She chewed on her lip, looking away. The tall windows that faced the lake were dark, the lights of the party inside reflecting in the glass. And there they were too, their black silhouettes clinging to each other, moving in sync. Their figures looked good together. His head dipped toward hers, her back arced against his arm that was wrapped around her waist.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked. His arm tightened slightly against her back.
She looked back at him. “No, why?”
“Never mind. But you have this thing going on—” he tapped the space between his brows— “when you look distracted. It’s a very serious look for such a festive night.”
“What could possibly be wrong?” She forced a quick smile. “We’re at a beautiful inn, it’s almost Christmas, and the platter of lobster hush puppies on the buffet is being refilled as we speak.”
“I can’t argue with that.” He held out his arm with exaggerated gallantry.
Layla couldn’t suppress the giggle. She looped her arm through his.
“Let’s go get some of those hush puppies,” he said.
On their way through the room, two people stopped Brant to praise him for the outdoor displays. To his credit, Brant quickly introduced her, turning the attention on her. Beside him, her confidence didn’t falter. He was smooth, sensing when the small talk waned to add a casual comment about how she’d used decorations from a local artist or how she didn’t miss a beat in her schedule, even when the inn lost power for thirty-six hours.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” she said as they passed through the foyer on the way to the buffet in the other room.
Brant stopped and turned to her. “Do what?”
“Brush off compliments on my account. They want to talk to you, not hear about me.”
“I thought we were here to help you network?”
His look was pure boyish innocence. It was such a departure from cool, charismatic Brant Johnsson, the Master of Lights and Luminaria. Her curiosity about kissing him earlier surged again.
Above them, the ball of holly and boxwood springs dangled from the silver gossamer ribbon. She didn’t have to look to know it was there; she’d hung it, after all.
But he did.
It swayed, doing dizzying little circles.
“It looks bored,” she said, watching his face.
A little smile quirked his lips while he continued watching it. “What are we going to do about that?” he asked.
That was all the encouragement she needed. She raised her hand to his cheek and their eyes locked. Reading her look, Brant stepped forward, closing the space between them, and cupped her face in his hands, a mix of urgency and great care. A kiss so soft and full landed on her lips that it literally took her breath away for a moment. Her body stiffened as her other hand held on to his bicep. The suit jacket underneath her fingers was pliable and warm with the heat from his skin radiating through the material. Layla took a fistful, pulling him closer, and that simple action caused Brant to kiss her more deeply.
A cough nearby brought her back to reality, thank goodness. She mentally shook herself.
Be careful. You’ve always kept your head in matters of the heart.
This time was no different.
She drew away from Brant and gazed at his face.
Oh, but yes, it was very different.
He was slow to open his eyes and his mouth still somewhat held the shape of their kiss. It was such a sensuous visual, seeing him as he looked while kissing her, that the hair stood on her arms. She swallowed noisily.
“Why did we stop?” he asked, his eyes hooded when they finally opened. A small wildfire danced in his eyes. It almost consumed her.
“We had an audience.”
He cocked a brow, scanning the foyer. “Where is this intruder that I’m going to kick into a snowdrift?”
