Compromising Kessen (The Vandenbrook #1)(21)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

“Come on, Kessen. How dumb do I look? I had them remove all weapons before we came.”

“Stupid British piece of—” She was still yelling when he released her.

Her stumble made him laugh until she crossed her arms and sent him the iciest glance she had in her repertoire. He straightened and forced a smile. “What is it, America?”

“This has to stop!”

“What has to stop?” He turned around and rummaged through the cupboards.

“This.” She pointed at him then back at herself.

“Talking? You want us to stop conversing?”

Kessen groaned. “No, Christian. I want us to stop kissing. What is wrong with you?”

Apparently he didn’t care for that accusation, because as soon as the words were out of her mouth, he was in front of her, seething. “What’s wrong with me? What about you? You’re responding!”

She took a few deep breaths, and then let out a little sigh; he was inches from her face. Christian looked at her lips, then at her eyes, then her lips again as his forehead rested gently against hers.

“Okay,” he said huskily. “I may regret phrasing it like this, but you are right.”

Her humor had left her, just like her memory and good sense. She could only nod and continue to stare at his gorgeously shaped lips.

Christian cleared his throat. “Um, are you still hungry?”

“Hm, yes,” she teased.

Ignoring her sarcasm, he went back to the cupboard and hunted. “We have nut spread, some wine, crackers, and I think there is some cheese in the cooler.”

Kessen’s eyes lit up. “Cooler?”

“You know, where you store all the things to—”

“Keep cool?” Kessen interrupted tilting her head to the side, as mocking as she could possibly be.

“Push off.”

“Okay, Harry, whatever you say.”

His expression turned complex. “Why did you call me Harry?”

Should she strike his pride again? Yes. Yes, she should. “Because you just sounded like Harry Potter.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Perfect.”

“I always did like that movie.”

“I hope you mean that in an un-creepy way, such as you enjoy the special effects, but don’t have a crush on Harry Potter himself.”

She sighed. “Well, he does have those glasses.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, then pulled out the contents of the pantry. “Now that I’m ignoring your baited sarcasm, I’ll have you know I actually do have more than just cards planned for us. And because of our recent agreement, I’ve decided it’s best for us to proceed outside, where it’s raining, and your body will be bundled up rather than … that.” His voice cracked a bit as he pointed at her.

Pride welled in her belly; it wasn’t every day a future duke had to fight to keep his hands off her. It’s also not every day she wanted to also return the favor. She straightened and grabbed the basket while he stacked food inside.

“So can we go for a walk?”

He nodded and off they went. He was a man of few words when he wanted to be, which was irritatingly annoying. She hated silence. Silence was of the devil. What she wanted was good conversation, good food, and his lips, but that was out of the question.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with each of them awkwardly avoiding any sort of bodily contact. It would have been funny had it been her watching it or reading it, but not while living it. Living it was complete torture. The anticipation or anxiety was nearly killing her. By the time the car came back to pick them up she was exhausted.

Consequently, they had succeeded in getting to know more about one another. Favorite foods, colors, sports, et cetera. Why did the man have to be so interesting? Every time he talked, his eyes lit up. She wanted his eyes to light up when he talked about her.

The thought was humbling. She’d never vied for any man’s affection until now, and he was in all respects her soon-to-be husband. How humiliating.

If Nick and Sammy found out, which they probably already had, considering they didn’t live under rocks, they were going to come unglued.

Nick would tease her mercilessly, while Sammy shook her head apologetically. It would be awful.

No paparazzi were waiting at her grandmother’s house. She grabbed her purse and clothes, which had made their way back into her clutch, and ran inside.

By the time she reached her room on the second level of the house, she was wiped out. Her clothes were soaked from the earlier rain. Mascara was running freely down her face, and her hair was matted to the top of her head, thanks to Christian insisting she remove her hat.

“He didn’t have to be so forceful about it,” she grumbled, picking at her hair. It would take an entire bottle of conditioner to get the tangles out. The tangles he put there. It wouldn’t have been a problem had he been able to keep his hands to himself.

Why couldn’t she shake the obvious attraction she felt for him?

It was bordering on dangerous, exciting and saddening her at the same time, because it was just one more thing pulling her towards London and away from her mother’s memory.

Kessen shook her head; if she tried hard, she might convince herself it was merely a high school crush, a flirtation, but when she remembered his hands on her body, all she could do was shiver, and the room temperature was anything but chilly.

Then again, he could be playing her for a fool. He obviously had lots of girls he could choose from, and no matter what he said, she wouldn’t believe he hadn’t jumped on the opportunity to date hundreds of women, regardless of his inability to commit. Just how many women had he dated? Not that she wanted to ask him, because naturally he would assume she cared, which she didn’t … or so she told herself.

Too tired to shower, she collapsed onto her bed. Confusion made it impossible to do anything except over-analyze every single thing which had happened that day.

She was marrying a future duke. One of the most powerful men in England. She shook her head to clear the fuzz that had descended on her brain. If he weren’t such a good kisser, it wouldn’t be an issue. She didn’t ask for this; she didn’t ask to fall for the first British guy who stole a kiss.

Since it was forced on her, she could only gather it would be a marriage of convenience. The only problem was that her blinding attraction to him made it nearly impossible for her to reconcile to that fact. All she could think about was how big and warm his hands were.

This was not going to work.