Page 49 of Solo

At first, she thinks I’m trying to stop her from drinking anymore, which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. And, although I am removing her hand from the bottle, that’s not why. I take her hand in mine and use it to pull her forward, off her couch cushion and onto mine. She doesn’t fight me.

My head is spinning with conflicting emotions. I want her. I want this. But there’s that nagging part of me that’s screaming “What the hell are you doing?”

And I can’t blame that part of me. This has disaster written all over it. But I just don’t care.

Chapter Twenty-One

Kate

I’m melting into him. It’s the only way I can describe it. For the first time, I’m not fighting against Drew Markham. I’m moving toward him, with him. It happens slowly for the first few seconds as we’re hesitant in our actions and unsure of one another’s intentions. But somewhere within those inches we both draw the same conclusion. I lurch toward him and he catches me in his arms, both of us falling backward onto the couch. Our lips connect with a ferocity that is jarring.

His hands are in my hair and we’re like two starving wretches who have stumbled upon a feast. My hands are under his shirt, feeling the smooth plane of his back, absorbing his warmth through my skin. We’re both gasping and panting, pushing and pulling. And then he stops. I nearly fall off the couch when I no longer have the resistance of his body to push against. I pull back and look up at him, confused.

“W-what? What is it?”

His eyes are closed and he’s shaking his head. His face is a mask of regret.

“Drew?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Katherine. You…me…”

He gestures toward the four empty bottles of wine on the coffee table. “We’ve both had way too much. You’re still not a hundred percent well. I’m your professor. You’re my student. There are a million different reasons why we need to stop this. Why I need to stop this. Right now. Right. Now.”

I take a deep breath and extricate myself from what’s left of his embrace.

“Umm, okay,” I say quietly as I readjust my shirt and scoot down the couch a few feet so I can get a better look at him. “It’s okay. Really.” I nod and give him a slightly confused but reassuring smile.

Still, he doesn’t look convinced. He stands up abruptly, his right hand raking through his dark hair while he paces behind the couch. I twist around to watch him.

“I don’t know where that came from,” he’s muttering, more to himself, than to me. “What’s wrong with me? I know better.”

With a sigh, I wonder the same thing about myself. We hate one another. Don’t we? Apparently not. But even I, with my limited knowledge of psychology, recognize that there’s a very fine line between love and hate. Not that I love him or anything. But I certainly wouldn’t mind another one of those kisses.

“Please don’t make yourself nuts over this,” I say, desperate to pull my thoughts away from his lips. “It’s just one of those things. You said it yourself—we had too much to drink. So I propose that we keep drinking. And we pretend nothing ever happened. Jeez, it’s entirely possible we won’t even remember this in the morning. What do you think?”

He only waits a split second before replying.

“Yes. Absolutely.” He nods. “I think there’s another bottle of chardonnay in the wine cooler.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kate

“What’s so funny?” I smile up at him, from where I’m lying on the floor by the fire. He’s in his chair, the sound of the wooden runners creating a hypnotic rhythm as they rock back and forth, back and forth against the slate hearth. He glances down at me, still rocking.

“You know, at first, I couldn’t believe my bad luck—to have you, of all my students, stuck here with me. Now, I realize what incredibly good luck it was. And I still can’t believe it.”

“What? Are you saying you wouldn’t have had just as good a time with Evan and his bassoon?”

“Hah! No, you’re considerably more attractive than Evan. Or his bassoon, for that matter.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “And, I’ve got to say, I’m just not really a fan of the scraggly goatee look.”

“But I look like Casey.”

“Yes, you do,” he admits. “But not the same.” He takes me by surprise when he leans over to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. I fight the urge to lean in to his touch. “The fact that you remind me of her isn’t the attraction. In fact, it’s been a deterrent all these years. I’ve been so angry with her for so long.”

“Because she killed herself?”

“Exactly.” His face clouds with concern. “Is that totally screwed up?”