Free The Reluctant Cinderella by Christine Rimmer

everyone. As if he’d never, ever let her go. It was in the way his lips brushed hers and then settled in, deeper, harder, hotter….
    He stole her breath and stopped her heart with that kiss of his, as his tongue stroked the secret places beyond her lips, and his hands roamed her back, rubbing, caressing, making all kinds of promises. Promises that didn’t need words. Promises made in the heat and the knowing pressure of his touch.
    She could have stood there forever, drinking his kiss, kissing him back, feeling wanted—needed, even—feeling truly beautiful for the first time in her life.
    But then he lifted his lips from hers a fraction and whispered her name. “Megan…”
    And she whispered back. “Greg…”
    And somehow, that did it—saying his name aloud. It made it all achingly, terribly clear.
    This couldn’t go anywhere. She’d told him so and he had understood her.
    This was impossible.
    This was not going to be.
    When he tried to claim her lips again, she shook her head. She flattened her hands on his broad chest and gently, firmly, pushed him away. He resisted, but only for a moment. His arms fell—and she wanted more than anything to sway toward him again.
    But she didn’t. She stepped back and whispered weakly, “I’m…sorry. So sorry…”
    He shook his head. “Sorry doesn’t help.” His lips were swollen, red, from kissing her.
    She knew hers were the same. And she couldn’t stay here. If she did, she’d only end up kissing him some more. “We…we have to go.”
    â€œYeah. All right. Whatever you say.” He turned without another word and headed down the stairs. She stared after him, stunned at what had happened.
    Now, after that kiss, the fact that there could be no more seemed so terrible. So totally wrong…
    But no. It wasn’t wrong. There was Carly to think about. Carly, who trusted her. Carly, who had cried on Megan’s shoulder, revealing her heartbreak as she never would have done if she’d known about this…
    At the bottom of the stairs, Greg looked up at Megan, his eyes hooded and his jaw set. “I need a ride back to the station.”
    She shook herself. “Of course.” And hurried down.
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    In the garage, Megan trotted right over and climbed in the car while Greg reset the alarm and locked the inner door. She started up the engine and he got in. The garage door trundled up.
    Carefully, because she was shaking and didn’t really trust herself behind the wheel, she put the car in reverse, peered back over the seat and slowly pulled out. Greg rolled the door down with the remote.
    She backed—too slowly, with painstaking care—out onto Sycamore Street, carefully turning the wheel so the car was pointed in the right direction. She was so busy concentrating on her driving that she almost didn’t notice the two women in jogging shorts and sports bras walking their matching Yorkshire terriers on the other side of the street.
    She gasped when she did see them. Ohmigod. Irene Dare and Rhonda Johnson, the two biggest gossips in Rosewood.
    And they had seen her with Greg.
    They’d stopped, stock-still, on the sidewalk, their little dogs yapping at their feet. They gaped from Megan’s face—flushed with pure guilt, she just knew it—to Greg’s, and back again.
    Greg waved. The two lifted their arms in unison and waved back. Megan drove on down the street.
    She couldn’t keep herself from looking in the rearview mirror as she turned the corner. Irene and Rhonda had not moved on. They stood in the same spot, their dogs jumping and barking around their feet. They were no longer staring, though. Now they were talking, urgently—Irene’s dark head bent down to Rhonda’s frizzy red one.
    Dear Lord. Let this be the one time they keep their big mouths shut….
    Even as Megan formed the little prayer, she knew it was