leaned down to press a quick kiss on Grier’s lips.
Grier felt her mouth drop into a small, shocked
O
of surprise as he pulled away. Once again, his rich, warmscent surrounded her and she could still feel the hard imprint of his lips against hers.
He deliberately didn’t look back as he crossed the lobby to where Doc Cloud settled himself in a chair and she fought to close her mouth so she didn’t look like a gaping fish.
“Do I even need to ask the question or is there a gigantic bubble above my head with words in it?” A wicked grin spread across Avery’s face as she twisted the corkscrew in a bottle of Cabernet that Grier had become particularly fond of.
“First, you sound just like Sloan. And second, I had no idea he was going to do that.”
“It didn’t stop you from enjoying it.”
Grier refused to respond for fear of digging a hole for herself she’d not be able to climb back out of.
She
had
enjoyed it.
That brief, possessive touch of his lips and the merry twinkle in his bright blue eyes had sent a shot of heat to her core that she’d likely be reliving long into the night.
“He’s still crazy about you, you know,” Avery added as she poured the rich red wine.
“Yeah.”
“And…?”
“And what, Avery? Nothing’s changed.”
“You mean you haven’t turned over a new leaf for the new year?”
“And what new leaf would that be? The one that says I’ll indiscriminately knock boots with the hot bushpilot until I go home again in four to six weeks? I don’t think so.”
“It’s not indiscriminate if it’s only one hot bush pilot.”
“It doesn’t change the four-to-six-weeks part.” Grier reached for her wine. “Walker thinks it’ll all be wrapped up by then.”
“And then you’re going to leave?”
Grier swirled the wine in her glass. “I’ve got a phone interview for a job tomorrow.”
“Is it something you want?”
The question struck Grier with swift clarity and in that moment, all the reasons she and Sloan had come to care for Avery so quickly were clear.
“You’re not upset?”
Avery laid a hand over hers, the show of solidarity and silent support a beacon Grier wanted to cling to.
“Of course not. I’m disappointed at the idea I won’t see you all that often, but I want what’s best for you. You’re my friend and I want you to be happy.”
“It’s at a very well-respected accounting firm. It’s not quite what I was doing before and it’s nowhere near the partner track I was on, but it’s something. Seeing as how my name’s not exactly golden among the New York firms right now, I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
Avery lifted her own wine and swirled it in the light, her actions casual and her voice low enough so the few patrons assembled around the bar wouldn’t hear. “Why should your name be mud? From the little you’ve said, it was your ex’s fault you were dismissed.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m the reason his behavior was exposed. I’m damaged goods.”
“You look pretty saucy from here.”
“It’s that fresh Alaska air.”
Avery flashed another wicked grin. “I think it’s the fresh Alaska men.”
Grier risked a glance over her shoulder to where Mick and Doc Cloud sat in overstuffed chairs, engaged in comfortable conversation. She couldn’t argue with Avery’s point, no matter how many times she told herself she couldn’t—or shouldn’t—partake of the locals. There was
something
about this one particular man.
Mick had shed his leather jacket and she could see the heavy flannel shirt that covered his broad shoulders. Even when he was sitting, his coiled, rangy strength drew her attention so that she could barely see anything but him.
Uncomfortable with the renewed wave of heat that had her thick wool sweater suddenly feeling much too heavy, Grier shifted her gaze toward Doc Cloud. Despite his age, which she estimated to be about seventy-five, he had a hale and hearty attractiveness that was unusual this late in
Bill Pronzini, Barry N. Malzberg