A Wedding on Lilac Lane by Hope Ramsay (best book clubs .txt) 📕

though the touch of his skin against hers made fireflies spark to life in her middle. That simple touch, and her deep reaction to it, was a warning she chose not to heed. She probably shouldn’t have held his hand in public, but she didn’t let go until she had to climb down the steep steps to the salon.

The space was paneled in gleaming mahogany with porthole windows and skylights that provided views of the rigging and the dusky blue of the twilight sky beyond. The salon wasn’t cavernous like Grace Church, or ordinary like Cibo Dell’anima. Decorated in beautiful shades of blues and greens, it had an intimate feel. It wouldn’t hold many guests, though.

“I love it,” she said, turning to inspect the comfortable furniture, all of which was built into the bulkheads. She had a Goldilocks moment. After all the searching, she’d finally found the right place.

“We should book it for the first available Wednesday. We can’t have a party on Tuesday because of the Piece Maker meetings. I have discovered that nothing stands in the way of those.”

“And what if it rains or storms?” Dylan asked, repeating his concerns like some oracle of doom.

She turned on him. “What is wrong with you? You’ve been Doctor Depressed all night. Was it me asking questions about your mother that put you into this mood?” Or was it her dress? She didn’t dare ask that because the dress had been a mistake. The arms were so tight they were cutting off circulation to her hands. She turned away from him and headed down a narrow hallway right off the salon.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted,” he said, following her.

“By what?” she asked over her shoulder. This was too dangerous a question to ask when looking him right in the eye.

“One of my patients died today.”

“Oh. Gee. I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot.” She turned, leaning against a bulkhead. “Was it sudden?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He reached out and took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. Oh, his touch made her long for things she could never have. He shook his head. “She was an old lady,” he said. “Alone in the world. Her husband had died. She didn’t have kids. Not even any friends left. They’d all died and left her alone. She was suffering from heart failure, and the meds were starting to lose their efficacy. I thought she should go into a nursing home, and Dad was opposed to that.”

His voice got hard at the end. “If Dad had listened to me, she’d be alive today.”

She squeezed his hand. “But would she be happy about that?”

He met her gaze. “She’d be alive. Dead is dead.”

Spoken like a doctor who spent his life battling for life. She had to love him for caring so much, but if she were in the same situation, she’d be ready to meet her Maker.

She rocked up on tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then she pulled away from him, putting space between them.

“Where are you going?” Dylan asked, following her down the hall.

She opened one of the hallway doors, which led to a cabin with a small bedroom. “I’m checking out…the bedrooms,” she said, and then regretted the way that sentence sounded, so she continued down the hall, opening doors until she found a large stateroom at the end of the hallway. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle of the room on a platform of highly polished wood with drawers underneath. The bulkheads were paneled like the library at Howland House, with decorative inlays and millwork. Tongue and groove planking, painted a creamy white, covered the low, curved ceiling, and two porthole windows provided a view.

 “Wow,” she said, leaning into the doorway. “I wonder how much it would cost to charter this boat and sail to the Caribbean.”

“More than either of us can afford,” Dylan said from behind her, his breath feathering against the nape of her neck. “It would be fun sailing away with you. If we went alone, we wouldn’t have to skulk around like sneaks.”

Time hung suspended as her mind spun off on a wild and crazy tangent in which neither Jim nor Mom existed. What would it feel like to be utterly free to simply let this thing—fling or relationship—unfold in its own time?

If she was free right now, she’d step across this threshold. She’d pull him into the room with her and give him the comfort he so desperately needed tonight.

Just then, his mouth touched the skin right below her earlobe, his lips hot against her skin. The kiss was like a spark dropped onto dry kindling. Her body burst into a rush of heat and fire.

She turned to face him. He took her by the shoulders and backed her up through the doorway as his mouth came down hard and hungry on her lips.

He closed the door. She pressed herself against him. He was sturdy and male and utterly delicious. He linked a string of kisses down her neck like fiery pearls.

In every spot where he touched her, she came to life, hungry and needy. She groaned out loud, and he turned the tables, pressing her up against the door, his body a welcome weight against her.

When he managed, with some serious effort, to tug the hem of her tight skirt up over her hip, she pressed into him and kissed his ear, her fingers roaming through the curly texture of his hair.

She was about to suggest a tumble into the beautiful bed when Jude St. Pierre’s voice pierced the fog of her desire. “Dylan? Are you down here? One of the guests just fell and gashed her head.”

Dylan stopped, pulling away from her, his eyes dark and hungry. “We’re not finished,” he said, then turned around, deftly straightening his bow tie as he opened the door and headed down the hallway.

“I’m here,” he said in a loud voice. “Ella wanted to see the staterooms.”

*  *  *

Dylan didn’t know whether to