Her thick, dark eyelashes fluttered as she dipped her chin, and he considered that maybe she’d been thinking about that night, too. Or maybe one of the sixty other nights that summer they’d grabbed each other whenever time and circumstance allowed.

She surprised the hell out of him by saying, “It’s hard to walk past the Stone and not think about it.”

No shit. He’d had to see that thatched-roof reminder every day for the past ten years. The place where he’d first tasted Jen’s mouth, that kiss in all its messy, frantic, hormonal glory, could do him a giant favor by leaving him alone for a day or two.

So she’d talk about their beginning but not remotely acknowledge their end?

He considered taking this further by finally breaking and being the one to bring it up, then realized it would be like slamming a bulldozer through the wall. Their interaction tonight had been so easy, so warm. So like two adults who still—maybe, hopefully—felt some sort of attraction or affection toward one another.

He put down the beer and grabbed the back of a chair with both hands, leaning into it. It let out a giant groan under his weight. He should be thankful for their distance, because the way she breathed now, with deep movements of her chest, her head tilted back slightly on her neck, brought to mind images of surrender.

She ran a hand up and down one bare arm, and even though it was warm in the small summer kitchen, her skin pebbled.

“I have to go. My food’s probably ice-cold and I have work to do before bed.” She mimed typing.

He let her turn and descend the step into the foyer, his body aching to follow. She picked up her purse and peeked at him over her shoulder, her shiny dark hair hiding a green eye. Those things were powerful, brilliant enough to stun with just one.

There. A flash of remembrance. A second of desire. She hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t pushed it away.

His own brand of desire came back from the past, shooting straight through the years, intensifying as it spun and grew. It slammed into him. Any other woman he’d dated over the past decade didn’t even register. He and Jen though, they had an anchor that was pretty impossible to dig out of the sand.

He couldn’t help himself. “I lied, Jen. I was thinking about kissing you right now. Still am.”

He watched the shiver pass through her, could see it even across the room. Good.

And then he was across the room, his legs eating up the kitchen floor in three strides. Hands on her hips, the feel of that dress in his palms, he lightly pressed her against the back door. She didn’t protest, didn’t stiffen, and if that wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what was. Her body was warm and giving along his.

His head lowered, her mouth three inches away. Then two. Then . . .

It was short and gentle, the brush of his lips against hers. But the promise, the heat . . .

He pulled back with a restraint he’d never known himself capable of. Straightening, he looked down at her dazed face.

“What do you want, Leith?” she whispered.

He knew her question was bigger than this moment, that she was referring to the fact that her presence here—and his, too—was temporary, at best.

“Right now”—he gave her waist a squeeze—“I’m pretty sure I want you. Beyond that, I don’t know.” Then he pushed back fully, putting charged air between them. “Still want to have breakfast with me?”

Only he wasn’t talking about just eating. He meant everything that came before.

“Yes,” she breathed. A heated mingling of stares, and then she opened the door and was gone.

Chapter

7