Seeing my reticence, he gave me a big smile. Shaking his head and exhaling an audible breath, Ronan looked the opposite of the furious and tortured man I’d encountered about an hour ago. He looked befuddled, yes, but he also looked merry and happy and maybe a little overwhelmed.

I dropped my hands to my sides and took a half step forward. “I am so, so sorry. I am so sorry.”

He waved away my apology as the lady from behind the counter came over with a towel and asked if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” he said to both her and me. He closed the distance between us and placed his hands on my upper arms. He must not have liked my expression because he dipped his chin to his chest and repeated, “Really, I’m fine. I am.”

“I can’t walk, and obviously I have difficulty swallowing.”

He tsked. “That’s too bad….”

My eyes widened at his statement, but my mouth dropped open when he added, “I prefer a woman who swallows, but spitting doesn’t bother me much.”

“Ronan!” I hit him on the chest. I had no idea when we’d crossed that line, the line where I felt comfortable hitting him for his naughty taunts, but there we were.

Another laugh rumbled from his chest, and he didn’t look at all ashamed. “Oh, the tea was totally worth it. I’d take it a hundred times for the expression on your face right now.”

I flattened my smile, determined not to subject him to my snort-laugh again, and surveyed his clothes. He was a mess.

“At least, I don’t know, let me help you somehow….” I dabbed at his soaked shirt, quite liking how this close I could see the muscles of his chest and stomach. Distractedly, I patted the front of his pants.

“Annie….”

“I know; I remember. I’m supposed to dab, not rub.” I recalled his words from our first meeting.

“Annie….”

“Am I rubbing?”

“No…but, God, I wish you would.”

I stared at him for a beat, understanding the implication of his words, then groaned and closed my eyes. “You have to stop doing that. You can’t say those things.”

“I know you like it.”

“Maybe so, but that’s how you end up with tea spit in your face.”

“It’s not so bad.”

I peeked at him, found his eyes on me, warm and appraising.

“You’re a bit of a tornado, aren’t you?” He said this good-naturedly, and his warm and appraising gaze turned hot and interested. “After all this, I think the least you can do is give me a kiss to make it better.”

I stared at him, nonplussed. Movement over his shoulder caught my attention, and I glanced at the woman cleaning up after my mess at the table. She was watching us furtively and obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. I cleared my throat and took a step closer to him, lowering my voice so it couldn’t be heard.

“How can you want me to kiss you? I’ve just assaulted you with my tea…twice.”

“I’ll take your tea assault any day…if…” —Ronan leaned forward, lowering his head but stopping just a hair’s breadth from kissing me. He continued on a whisper— “…if it’s followed with a kiss.”

His action drove the breath from my lungs, and I felt myself swaying forward. Even tea-soaked and messy, he made my stomach flip and my heart flutter. And, dammit, he was entirely too charming, too sexy, too…glorious.

Before I could catch it, a desperate-sounding half moan, half sigh escaped my lips. He took this as permission—which, basically, it totally was—and he captured my mouth with his.

And I kissed him back.

We touched only with our mouths and tongue and teeth, and, like him, it was wonderful. He kissed like he flirted, aggressively, with complete expert abandon. My breasts felt heavy and full, and I wanted him to touch them, touch me, do something other than tease me with his mouth. But he didn’t. And when I would have stepped into the kiss, he lifted his hands and caught me, holding me away. I gave a small frustrated groan and lifted my head.

He looked pleased and content.

Meanwhile, I was feeling frustrated and disoriented and hot.

He pressed his lips to mine once more and then stepped away, his delicious chocolate gaze cherishing. “I don’t want to mess up that pretty dress.” His tone was soft as he explained, and pointed to his tea-stained shirt.

I stared at him, feeling a little lost in Ronan Fitzpatrick and his epically warm smiles and hot kisses and scorching looks.

I was completely out of my depth. My feelings were all tangled up, and I had no right to be tangling feelings with Ronan.

Studying him now, really looking at him, I saw that—whatever we were doing, this dance we’d started—for him, this wasn’t a dalliance, a quick flirtation. He was actually interested in me. He liked me, or at least what he knew of me.

And he deserved better, and I didn’t think this because I had chronically low self-esteem. I thought this because it was the truth. I was a mess. I was inexperienced. I was a broken, control-freak hermit. My issues had issues. My hurts had hurts. I knew how to run away. I was really good at running away; I didn’t know how to stay.

Nothing could happen between us. Nothing could ever happen, and the sooner he realized this truth, the better.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Not for the tea, but I am sorry about that.”