Second Chance Rose and Other Stories

  Chapter Twenty-Seven hadn’t written itself in his absence. He scrolled back several chapters to get a running start into new material. As he read, his stomach sank. Beau was cardboard. He moved his cursor to page one for another look. When he reached the scene with Francesca La Forge, he stopped. Read it again.

  Carter wasn’t a total stranger to sex. Not as adventurous as Beau, but no fumbling teenager. However, to his dismayed surprise, Tiffany had pegged him. Beau was a self-centered lover. A boring, self-centered lover. If lover was even the right word.

  Should he change it? Could he change it? Was there anything wrong with sitting in the middle of the bestseller list? His father would never settle for anything other than number one. Had Carter been subconsciously rebelling, refusing to take risks, plodding the safe ground rather than doing something because it was the way his father would have done it? His throat tightened. Even from his grave, the man dictated his life.

  Damnation. He picked up the phone and called his agent.

  “Caroline? Look, I need an extension. Not long. A few extra weeks should do it. Smooth things over with Michael, okay?” His editor would understand. Besides, he’d never asked for an extension before.

  He hung up, feeling only a little guilty she’d assumed he needed the extra time because of the hurricane, and went back to his reading.

  The doorbell rang. Growling in frustration, he got up. Tiffany stood on his entry. Again. Her hair was banded atop her head like a mushroom cloud. Moisture glistened on her face. She wore nylon running shorts and a white tank-top which clung to her in damp patches, revealing impressions of a lace bra underneath. A faint tinge of female perspiration mixed with something citrus wafted up. Inexplicably, his groin tightened.

  She strode toward the kitchen, rubber flip-flops flapping, and returned, waving her cell phone. “I forgot it. Sorry.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to find a place for Grampa. No power, no air, and it’s got to be nearly ninety. I’ll make some calls. Find out when the electric company thinks we’ll have power. Might have to find a hotel for him. This heat is taking its toll.”

  He couldn’t stop himself. “My power’s on. My air conditioning works.”

  “I noticed.”

  “We’re on different transformers,” he said.

  Was it the air conditioning that made her nipples stand up under her shirt, through her bra? “Why don’t you both come over?” he said without thinking. “I’ll fix something for dinner, you can clean up, cool off.”

  “I don’t want to impose. Grampa can be a handful, especially when his routine is disrupted. He’s been kind of zoned this afternoon.”

  Take the out.

  “It’s no problem. I’ve got a guestroom with two beds. You can both stay the night. I insist.” What was going on? Insist? By choice, he never had visitors, and now he was inviting people over, weeks before deadline? Had he become a character in a story, with some unseen author writing his dialogue?

  Tiffany smiled, and something chimed in his chest. If he believed he had a muse, this would be her signal. Just because he didn’t believe was no reason to ignore the opportunity.

  Her eyes widened, her head tilted. “Are you sure? Really sure?”

  “Go,” he said, giving her what he hoped was Beau’s rakish grin. “I’ll start dinner. The door will be unlocked.”

  She dashed a few paces down the path, then cut across the lawn at a trot. He glanced down at his wrinkled shorts and exchanged them for a pair of lightweight cotton slacks.

  He considered dinner. Beau would probably grill steaks, but he’d put all his meat in the freezer yesterday, in preparation for a power outage.

  Seconds later the door burst open and Tiffany called out.

  “In the kitchen,” he said.

  She surged in, plopped a cardboard carton on the counter, then opened his refrigerator and began transferring the contents of the box. “Since we have no power, these will spoil in another day. Please take them. You’re doing us a favor.” She held up a package of chicken parts. “These should probably be eaten soon, or frozen.”

  “I can fire up the grill.”

  “Great. I’ll get some things together and we’ll be over in a bit.” She whirled around and was gone.

  He went to the patio to start the gas grill. From the other side of the fence, Tiffany pleaded with her grandfather. He moved closer, worried she might need help.

  Grimbel paced alongside the fallen oak tree, back and forth, stopping occasionally to stroke the rough bark of its trunk. “I’m sorry, Claire. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “Come with me Grampa, please. It’s not your fault. Gramma understands.”

  Finally, the old man allowed Tiffany to lead him by the arm.

  Carter returned to the patio and busied himself with dinner preparations.

  “We’re here,” Tiffany called.

  He showed them to the guestroom, wondering again what had come over him, and hurried to the kitchen. He tore greens for a salad. The sound of water running through the plumbing told him someone was in the shower.

  Shortly thereafter, Tiffany appeared in the kitchen wearing clean khaki shorts and a deep blue T-shirt. Her hair was damp, her face scrubbed. “Can I help?”

  He checked the table. “Napkins are in the sideboard. Center drawer.”

  She passed in front of him, and she smelled of his soap and shampoo. His pulse quickened.

  Grimbel shuffled in, wearing striped pajamas under the same robe he’d worn this morning, but he, too was clean. Dinner passed in awkward, stilted conversation. Grimbel was as crotchety as ever, grumbling that nothing was the way Claire made it. Tiffany did her best to calm the troubled waters, but the man grunted, poked at his food, and was one step this side of unbearable. Carter distracted himself by making mental notes, absorbing the man’s general ill will to be used in a future book.

  Grimbel shoved his plate away and headed for the front door. “Going home. Claire will be waiting.”

  Tiffany jumped up. “Grampa, no. Remember. We’re staying here tonight. Gramma’s … out of town.”

  She took Grimbel’s hand and gave Carter an apologetic look. “I don’t know what’s come over him. He went out to the yard, and something snapped. He keeps talking about Gramma and the oak tree.”

  “That was her thinking tree,” Grimbel said. “Her favorite place. It’s gone now. All gone.”

  The old man had shrunk two sizes since this morning and aged about ten years, Carter thought. “Is he on any medications? Might he have taken too much, or missed a dose?”

  “Good point. I don’t know,” Tiffany said. “I haven’t been up this way in some time. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  Tiffany led her grandfather down the hall to the guestroom. Carter finished clearing the table, loaded the dishwasher and stopped himself from pouring a stiff whiskey. Much as he wanted to smooth the rough edges of the day, he needed a clear head.

  Tiffany came back, finger-combing her curls. A ripple of apprehension trickled through his belly. “Tinkerbell?”

  “She’s fine in Grampa’s yard. She has her own food and water dishes and her toys.” Tiffany tilted her head again, a gesture he was beginning to enjoy, and one corner of her mouth curled up. “Admit it, you’re relieved.”

  No point in denying it. “Guilty.”

  “You’re afraid of her. Or is it dogs in general?”

  “Who said I was afraid?”

  She shrugged. “All right, have it your way.” She glanced around the room. “Do you have a television? I’d like to get an update on the hurricane damage. If things are okay, it might make more sense to take Grampa back home with me for a while.”

  “In my bedroom.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe I could use your Internet connection? The storm didn’t go where the Weather Channel said it would, and I was stuck in that shelter, which was a smelly old high school gym, but it was the only one that took animals.”

  ??
?You’re welcome to my television. Between the Weather Channel and the 24-hour local news station, I’m sure you’ll find what you need.”

  He escorted her down the hall, not sure if he should leave her alone in his bedroom or stay with her, which would be entirely inappropriate. Beau would stay, he was sure, and probably have her in bed within seconds. But that wasn’t what Carter wanted. Or was it? She was attractive, friendly, and had parts of him responding in ways they hadn’t in a long time.

  Slow down.

  He filed his reactions away along with his observations of Grimbel. He preceded her into the room and picked up the television remote. She stood just inside the doorway, her gaze sweeping the room.

  “You can come in,” he said. “I’ll be in the living room.”

  When she didn’t move, he clicked the remote, turning on the set. “Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head, her curls bouncing. “Not really. After the way the rest of your house looks, I should have expected this. But usually a bedroom, especially a single guy’s bedroom, is a little more … lived in, you know. Were you, like in the military or something? I didn’t peg you as the type.”

  What was wrong with neat? He knew where everything was, and there was comfort in order. Gooseflesh prickled his skin, sending a shudder through him. His stomach flipped. Oh, God, he was turning into his father.

  “Weather Channel is twenty-seven, local news is thirteen,” he said, dropping the remote on the bed. “Feel free to use the phone as well.” Staring at the floor, he hastened from the room.

  Get in touch with his emotions be damned. Now he knew why he kept everything trapped inside a steel vault. Emotions hurt.

  He loaded his CD player with more Mozart, added some Handel and sat on the sofa, the leather slick and cool through his thin cotton trousers.

  By the time Tiffany returned, he’d sequestered his emotions where they belonged. Until he saw the look on her face and something sharp clawed his heart. “What happened?”

  She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t know for sure, but it looks like the neighborhood where I was living took a direct hit from one of those tornadoes.”

  “Your house?”

  “Can’t tell. I’ll make some calls tomorrow. But the main roads are all closed.”

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  She smiled again and set loose a battering ram inside his emotional strongbox. “It’s under control. Worst case scenario, I’ll get a hotel room for us.”

  He gestured toward the sofa. “Sit for a while. Relax. It’s been a long day.”

  She angled herself on the far end.

  “Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea? Wine? Anything?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” She seemed subdued, and he wondered what she’d learned while she was investigating the storm damage.

  They sat in silence for a moment—long enough for him to realize he hadn’t written a word all day, and surprised he didn’t really care. He thought he heard the chainsaws, but realized it was Grimbel’s snoring, audible over the music. “Sounds like your grandfather’s out.”

  “This was so not a good idea,” she said. “I’ll bet you’re a light sleeper. He’s going to totally ruin your night.”

  He thought about sleeping through a hurricane. “I’ll manage.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, you’re not exactly—”

  “Exactly what?”

  Her cheeks turned a pinkish red. “Never mind. I’m always opening my mouth and sticking my foot in it. Up to my knee, usually. And you ... don’t.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, you can’t do that. Go on. What are you trying to tell me?”

  Her color deepened to bright magenta. “You’re just like this house. Everything neat as a pin. Nothing out of place. It’s like a museum. What I can’t figure out is why you invited us to dinner, much less to spend the night.”

  His jaw dropped, and he slammed it shut. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re...organized. Not like me. People call me a free spirit, but sometimes I think they’re being polite and not saying ‘airhead.’ I never know what I’m going to be doing next. I’ll bet you’ve got a daily schedule down to the fifteen-minute mark.”

  His face grew hot. “And what’s wrong with being organized?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that we’re different. Opposite ends of the spectrum. I blurt out everything in my head. You weigh every word. I act first, think later. Have you ever done anything impulsive in your life?”

  He hesitated. Until this morning, no. Little did she know how impulsive his day had been.

  “See,” she said. “You’re figuring out what to say. If I wasn’t right, you’d have said so.”

  He avoided the contradiction. “You might have a point.”

  “Tell me something about yourself, Carter Worthington. Something honest. Something from inside. The first thing that comes to mind.”

  “I want to kiss you.” Heat burned his neck. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  Her eyes twinkled, and her dimple deepened. “Mean what? You don’t want to kiss me, or you didn’t want to tell me?”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Well, since you’ve already told me, why not give the other part a try?” Her grin was impishly sexy, if such a thing was possible. Right now, anything she did was sexy.

  “I don’t usually...”

  “I got that. Maybe you should. One kiss. No strings.” She scooted across the couch until she was practically in his lap. Where she’d undoubtedly notice he’d meant what he said.

  Before he managed any more thoughts, her lips were on his. Warm, soft, tender. Gentle. He closed his eyes. She kissed him from one side of his mouth to the other. The tip of her tongue slid along the seam of his lips, teasing. He opened, welcoming it, meeting it with his own. She tasted like barbeque sauce. Spicy, tangy and sweet at the same time. She nibbled his lower lip. He threaded his fingers through her hair, drawing her closer, deepening the kiss. Her tongue swept the inside of his mouth. He followed, an urgent quest, probing, seeking, plundering.

  Time stopped. His pulse roared in his ears. His groin swelled, straining against the confines of his slacks, which seemed a size too small. He drew back only long enough to gasp a desperately needed breath, then covered her mouth with his, plunging into its sweet depths. One of them whimpered. He hoped it wasn’t him. No, it was Tiffany. He was moaning. He pulled her onto his lap.

  Her fingers toyed with his beard, sending shockwaves through him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pressing her breasts—her warm, soft breasts—against his chest. She sucked his tongue. At the same time, her bottom ground against his groin, and he thought he might die.

  She broke away, resting her head on his chest, running her hands through his hair. “Was that so terrible?” she asked. “Letting go for a minute?”

  He tilted her face to his. Her eyes were dark, her lips swollen. “Pure torture,” he said, breathing hard. He ran his fingers down her jaw line. “Tiffany, I ...” His voice rasped.

  She took his hands and nibbled his fingertips. Shook her head. “I wasn’t totally honest before.”

  “And?” A ripple of uncertainty settled in his belly.

  “I’m not a totally free spirit. This is as far as I go until I know someone a lot better.”

  Relief surged through him that she wasn’t rejecting him. “I can accept that. What else would you like to know about me?” Damn, who was that, not only putting words in his mouth but blurting them out before his brain could intervene?

  This time she thought for a moment. He could almost hear gears whirring.

  “Why are you afraid of dogs? And don’t deny it. Dogs sense it, and it was pretty obvious even to me.”

  He exhaled a slow breath. “My mother instilled her own fear in me, I suppose. She never went near them, made sure they didn’t get near me. Told me they were going to bite me, and even though I
know it’s not rational, I still can’t relax around them.” He smiled. “But snakes don’t bother me. And I’m not afraid to fly. Do I get points for that?”

  She laughed, and he wanted to bottle the sound.

  They sat in silence again, and Grimbel’s chainsaw imitation worked its way into the room. He gestured toward the guest room. “Are you going to be able to sleep?” he asked. “I can sleep out here and you can have my bedroom.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m grateful for the bed and air conditioning.”

  She looked uncertain enough that he pressed. “Seriously. My room’s on the other side of the house, and with the door shut, I don’t think you’d hear a thing.”

  “Well, maybe. Grampa is a major sleep disrupter, but I can take the couch.”

  “No, take the bed. I insist.”

  There he was, insisting again. What did she do to him? Whatever it was, he was beginning to enjoy it. “I have work to do, so I’ll be up late. You can get a good night’s sleep and be ready for tomorrow.”

  He retrieved his toiletries from his bathroom, his silk pajamas, robe and slippers from the closet, and relinquished his bedroom to Tiffany.

  “Thanks again,” she said. “Good night.” She stood at the edge of the bed, watching him, almost warily. She flashed a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, or reveal her dimple. He lingered half a moment, trying to decide if she’d accept a goodnight kiss, but let it drop. She’d said one kiss, no strings. Maybe none on her end, but he was feeling decidedly tangled.

  “Sleep well,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He never made it into his pajamas, much less onto the couch. He went straight to his computer and ripped out entire scenes, even chapters, rewriting, tapping into feelings Tiffany had kindled with just a single kiss.

  Not just the kiss, he admitted. It had started almost as soon as he’d seen her, frantic to find her grandfather. She cared. He tried to remember when he’d cared for someone, even a fraction of the way she felt about her grandfather. Nothing came to mind. He’d been the obligatory heir, pawned off on nannies, sent to the right schools, the best summer camps. His total ineptitude at all things mathematical could have been overlooked. As long as there was someone named Worthington on the Worthington Investments company letterhead, what did it matter who did the work? But when he’d found the gumption to tell his father he didn’t want to spend his life in the stratosphere of superficial business acquaintances masquerading as friends, his father had simply disowned him. As if he were a bad investment, dumped, the loss written off.

  He wondered what Tiffany’s childhood had been like. Public school. Cheerleading? No, he thought. Drama club. Probably a few trips to detention. He smiled and resumed typing.

  He woke in his easy chair to mockingbird calls, his printout of his revised chapters strewn on the floor at his feet. He gathered them up, put them in order and placed them in a blue file folder in his desk drawer. Although he couldn’t have slept more than three or four hours, he felt refreshed. Invigorated, even. The adrenaline rush of inspiration. Something he hadn’t felt for the last two books.

  Tiffany was a fresh breeze blowing life into what until now had been mere existence. “No strings,” she’d said. No problem. He’d lived his life without them. He could accept what she was willing to give, then move on.

  The aroma of brewing coffee filled his nostrils. And bacon? He clawed through his hair, smoothed his beard and stretched. He took a lightning-fast shower in his study’s adjoining bath, ran a toothbrush across his teeth and only then realized he hadn’t brought a change of clean clothes with him last night. He climbed into his pajama bottoms, belted the robe and slipped past the kitchen to his bedroom, where he dressed in lightweight khakis and a polo shirt.

  Trading his slippers for loafers, he made his way back to the kitchen. Tiffany was serving bacon and scrambled eggs to her grandfather. She looked up when he entered the room, and her smile didn’t erase the worry in her eyes. “Good morning,” she said. “Breakfast is ready.”

  Grimbel scooped eggs into his mouth. He grunted something unintelligible.

  “I made Grampa a doctor’s appointment,” Tiffany said. “They can see him at eight.”

  He glanced at the kitchen clock. Seven-fifteen. “Anything I can do?”

  She shook her head. She’d fastened her curls at the nape of her neck, denying him their playful bounce. “I’ll take care of Tink. My cell is charged, so I can make calls while I’m waiting at the doctor’s office. See if I can schedule some repairs.”

  Grimbel shoved his empty plate across the table. “Not your best effort, Claire. Bacon’s underdone.”

  “I’m Tiffany, Grampa. I’ll do better next time. Now, get ready to go, okay? Your clothes are on your bed.”

  Grimbel shuffled off, and Tiffany turned her worried blue eyes back to him.

  An iron band squeezed Carter’s chest. “It’s good that they can see him so soon.”

  “But a little scary, too. Don’t they normally work urgent cases in right away? If they think it’s something minor, you can wait forever for an appointment.”

  He ached to kiss her temple where a few stray corkscrews of hair bobbed. “I’m sure it’s nothing. They probably had cancellations because of the storm.”

  “Thanks. I hope you’re right.” She piled the dishes on the counter. “I’ll take care of these as soon as I get back. Promise.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then jogged after her grandfather.

  Carter sat with his coffee long after her car drove off.

  For the first time since he’d moved in, the house seemed too quiet, too empty. He took care of the dishes, letting the hum of the dishwasher fill some of the void, and filled the rest with Chopin. After wrestling the carpets outside so he wouldn’t need to be disturbed by the pickup crew, he ensconced himself in his study and reread last night’s work. More than pleased, he lost himself in the new and improved Beau Banner.

  Engrossed in a scene, Carter slowly became aware of a commotion outside. Dog noises. Barks, growls, whimpers. Tinkerbell? With his hurricane shutters still lowered, he couldn’t see, but it sounded like it came from his front yard, not Grimbel’s backyard. Was Tiffany back?

  He saved his work and ambled to his front door, pulling it open for a better view. Tinkerbell lay on the lawn, half-hidden under a bush. Great. She’d escaped.

  “Go home, dog. Tinkerbell. Tink. Go home.” Tentatively walking toward her, he waved his arms toward Grimbel’s house. “Home, girl. Nice dog. Good dog.” His voice quavered.

  From behind, his door slammed shut. Tinkerbell lifted her bestial head. She growled, revealing teeth—big teeth—and jowls covered with a reddish-pink froth. Carter froze. His heart thudded in his chest and he forced himself to take deep breaths.

  Relax. Dogs know when you’re afraid.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Tink.” He hoped she’d return the favor. He edged backward until he could see Grimbel’s yard, where an unlatched gate told him how she’d gotten out. He continued backing away, uttering soothing doggie platitudes, hoping Tinkerbell would stay put until he found something to tempt her back where she belonged.

  In Grimbel’s yard, all he found was an empty food and water dish. Keeping an eye on the dog, he headed home. He had some ground sirloin in his freezer. Hell, if it would get the creature into her yard, he’d thaw his rib eye.

  Down the block, someone started a chainsaw. Tink bolted, hobbling on three legs. Damnation. He called after her, but she didn’t turn. He dashed toward his door, noticing the bloody dog prints all over his entry tiles. Shards of glass, apparently dislodged when the carpet cleaners picked up his rugs, sparkled at his feet.

  Crap.

  He found a length of rope, grabbed a piece of leftover chicken and dashed outside. “Tink. Come here, girl.”

  Ten minutes later, he’d lured her with bits of meat and tied the rope through her collar. She seemed tolerant, but wouldn’t allow him near her injured leg.
She limped beside him into his garage. He tied the rope to a filing cabinet and tossed her another morsel.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said and dashed into the house. He found the nearest veterinary clinic’s address in the phone book. Halfway to the garage, he ran back inside and grabbed an oversize bath towel.

  Please let her be a dog that likes car rides. He had visions of chewed up leather seats, mud, blood and dog puke all over the interior of his Mercedes CL. He opened the passenger door, tilted the front seat forward and spread the towel over the backseat. He placed another chicken bite on the towel and untied Tinkerbell.

  “Inside, girl,” he said. “Get the chicken.”

  As soon as the dog lumbered in, he slammed the door shut behind her and took his place at the wheel. They hadn’t gone three blocks before his car smelled like wet, dirty dog. “Stay there. Good girl,” he mumbled all the way to the clinic.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Ninety minutes later, Carter punched the remote to open his garage door. He’d written a sizeable check to the vet to include keeping her at least overnight, where he thought she’d be safer. If Tiffany objected, she could fetch her. He leaned over the backseat and retrieved the shredded towel. It would take a thorough detailing to get the dog smell out of the car.

  God, he needed a shower. And a stiff drink, although it was barely noon, but first, the shower. No sooner had he turned on the taps than the doorbell rang, followed by unrelenting knocking, along with his name being shouted. Tiffany and her impeccable timing. He grabbed his robe from the hook and sped to the door.

  Eyes frantic, hands fluttering like butterflies, she barely looked at him, her head snapping back and forth as she scanned the street. “Carter. Thank God you’re home. Tinkerbell’s gone. The gate was open. I’ve been all over the neighborhood. Have you seen her?”

  “Relax, Tiffany. Deep breath.”

  “But she could be lost. Or what if she’s trying to find her way home? She could get hit by a car, or starve, or—” She seemed to notice his attire. “Did I get you out of bed? Are you sick or something?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Come in.”

  She sat on the couch while he paced and explained about the glass shards imbedded in Tink’s paw, how they had to sedate her to get them out, and how he’d taken the liberty of boarding her there for the night.

  “You did all that?” she said, her blue eyes wide. “I thought you were afraid of dogs.”

  “I was. I’m not sure I still am, but I’m not in the mood to find out.”

  She jumped up and gave him a huge hug. “Thank you, thank you. Kirsten will be so relieved.”

  “Kirsten?” He held her against his chest. “Who’s Kirsten?”

  “Oh, she’s Tink’s owner. Didn’t I tell you?”

  He pushed her to arm’s length so he could look her in the eyes. “Tinkerbell isn’t your dog?”

  “No, I was dog sitting while Kirsten went to Italy. Maybe I won’t even tell her. I emailed her that we had to evacuate her house—”

  “Wait a minute. Her house?”

  “Well, yeah. I guess things were crazy and I forgot to mention it. I’m kind of a house and pet sitting service. I was staying there for two months, and—”

  “Okay, stop. Give me a minute. It wasn’t your house that was damaged in the hurricane?”

  “Tornado. But that’s right. I don’t actually have a house. I move around a lot, take care of places and pets when people are out of town. Only I might have to settle in with Grampa, at least for a while.”

  He sank into the easy chair, rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head in his hands while he tried to process everything Tiffany was telling him. “What happened with your grandfather?”

  “They’re running some tests, but they think it’s depression triggered by stress. The storm, and losing Gramma’s tree pushed him over the edge. They say it’s not unusual in the elderly, but they want to rule out anything else.”

  “Tiffany?” He kept his head buried, clutching his temples against the rapidly growing headache.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to be alone for a while, please.”

  “Of course. I’ve got repairmen scheduled anyway. I’ll be next door if you need me. “ He heard a zipper, then some jingling sounds, and a click. “I’ll leave my number on the coffee table, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Her footfalls clicked across his bare floor. The front door opened.

  “Carter?”

  “What else, Tiffany?” He sounded snappish, but didn’t care.

  “I’m very proud of you.”

  The door closed and he sat there a long, long time before finally getting up and taking a scalding-hot shower.

  In the steam, her words played over and over. I’m very proud of you. Someone he’d known for barely a day was proud of him, and for what? Taking a damn dog to the vet. All the years he’d busted his ass trying to please his parents, and not once had he heard those words from them. He lifted his face into the spray, trying to convince himself the stinging in his eyes was from the soap.

  He dressed and went straight to his computer. He didn’t have to like the feelings roiling inside, but he could certainly use them. No longer afraid to release his emotions, he attacked the keyboard. The new Beau Banner jumped from the page.

  Hours passed, barely noticed. His eyes burned, his wrists ached and his stomach rumbled, but he’d reworked the first half of the book. Then Francesca La Forge stepped into a scene and it was like hitting a concrete wall. Time for a break. On his way to the bathroom, he stopped to open a bottle of Jordan Cabernet and set it on the sideboard to breathe.

  In the bathroom, Tiffany’s toiletries reminded him of the abrupt way he’d dismissed her earlier. And he thought of Beau and Francesca. He went to find the slip of paper with her phone number.

  She came over a few minutes later, dressed in a long, flowing floral print skirt and a pale green tank top. “I saw the light in your study. I figured you were working and didn’t want to bother you.”

  She was hesitant. Almost shy. Definitely un-Tiffany-like. Had he been such an ogre? Or had something happened to her grandfather?

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked. “I was going to have one and would like the company.”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t eaten much, and I’m not much of a drinker.”

  He tried a Beau smile. “There’s leftover chicken. Join me for dinner?” He thought about Grimbel and begrudgingly extended the invitation.

  “Grampa’s with a friend at an assisted living senior complex. Sabal Palms. He knows a bunch of the residents. One of them has a two bedroom place and said Grampa can stay there. It’s cool because there’s medical staff on the premises if anything happens.”

  “Sounds like a perfect arrangement.”

  She nodded and her curls bobbed. “Can I help with dinner?”

  They worked side by side making a salad and reheating leftovers. Over the meal, she filled him in on the progress with Grimbel’s home repairs. The insurance company had already sent an adjuster out, and blue plastic covered the hole in the roof.

  “The carpeting is history, but overall, the damage wasn’t as bad as it seemed.”

  He had to ask. “Tinkerbell?”

  “I’m boarding her at the vet’s until her paw heals. Not good for her to be outside, and Grampa’s house isn’t exactly dog-proof.”

  “Probably the smart thing to do.”

  “Yeah, Kirsten agreed. She’ll be back in a week.” Tiffany twirled her empty wine glass in her fingers. He took it from her and set it on the coffee table next to his.

  She arched her brows. “I won’t break it, you know.”

  “I know. But it was in my way.” He leaned forward and ran his finger over her lips. “I want to kiss you again.”

  She parted her lips and caressed his finger with her tongue. Scraped it with her teeth. Nibbled it. Sucked it. She took his han
d in hers and repeated the action for the rest of his fingers. When she took his thumb into her mouth, he pulled it away and replaced it with his tongue. She tasted of wine, the kiss intoxicating him far more than his share of the bottle they’d finished.

  He broke the kiss and traced the neckline of her top. She took his hand and moved it lower, to her breasts. He thumbed her nipple, already erect, feeling it grow harder beneath his touch. “You like this?”

  “Mmm hmm.” She pressed his hand, increasing the pressure. “I have two of them, you know.”

  Oh, did he know. Round, soft, and … there. He used his lips and teeth on the other one.

  “Carter?”

  “Hmm?” he said without moving.

  “This isn’t kissing.”

  “I think it is.” He demonstrated by kissing her breast. Her neck. Her shoulder. Her belly. He pulled her tank from the waistband of her skirt and kissed her navel.

  “Definitely kissing,” he murmured.

  “But I’m not kissing you.”

  “Later.” She stiffened, and he pulled back. Was he moving too fast? God, he wanted her. Ninety percent of his blood supply had rushed south, and he longed for contact. She shifted, and he realized she’d been undoing her bra. Using his teeth, he slid the strap off her shoulder, first one then the other. One hand slipped beneath the neckline of her top and caressed the warm mounds. The other worked its way inside the elastic waistband of her skirt.

  “Carter?”

  She pushed him away, gently, and he gazed into her eyes, her pupils dilated so they looked almost black. “What?” Voicing the word was a major effort.

  In what seemed to be one smooth motion, her tank and bra were on the floor. “You want to try kissing me again?”

  “Oh, yeah. But I’ve got a better idea.” He stood, hooked one arm under her thigh and tugged upward. She followed his lead. With both legs wrapped around his waist, she ground her pelvis into his. Her tongue delved the depths of his mouth. He cupped her buttocks in support and somehow managed to navigate the eighteen miles to his bedroom without breaking the kiss.

  He lowered her to the edge of the bed. She lay there, her legs hanging over the mattress. He straddled her, trailing more kisses along her torso, licking, nipping, until he reached her skirt, His teeth clicked against a button at her waist. His lips reversed direction, up to her navel, as his fingers worked the button through the hole. Continuing down, he discovered another. And another. He made short work of them, until her entire skirt was one flat piece of gauzy fabric lying beneath her.

  He kissed her through the shiny, flesh-colored panties at her hips. His breath warmed his face as his breathing accelerated.

  “Are you okay with this?” He nuzzled her inner thighs. “Say stop and I will.” Although he thought he might die if she did. He shifted, trying to relieve some of the pressure of his cock against his trousers.

  She wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled his head against her.

  “You’re sure, Tiffany?”

  “Carter?” She pressed harder.

  “Mmff?”

  “Stop talking. Find something else to do with your mouth.”

  He thought his heart might crack a rib. The fact that she hadn’t released his head meant she wanted him to kiss her there. More than kiss. Excitement and apprehension waged a rapid battle. This was new territory. The girls he’d dated in college—well, they were strictly the missionary position types. Since then, there hadn’t been a lot more—creativity—in his sporadic and brief encounters.

  He laved her belly, exploring, absorbing the new sensation. Teeth, tongue, lips moved from her navel downward. She groaned and lifted her hips, moving her hands from his hair. “Off.”

  Slowly, he pulled away, trying to control his breathing. He reached for her hand. She accepted his and moved it to the elastic top of her panties. “Off,” she repeated, wriggling them down her hips.

  Oh, that kind of off. He was a little slow on the uptake, but damn, how much blood was left in his brain? Not enough to fill a shot glass, he’d wager. He swore his entire volume was between his legs.

  He inched the silky fabric past her hips, following it with a trail of kisses. Her female scent, musky and sweet, assaulted him. He needed to taste her. Sliding the panties down her legs and onto the floor, he returned to unravel the mystery that was Tiffany.

  His thumbs parted the cleft between her legs. Tentatively, he kissed her damp curls. She wriggled beneath him, opening herself wider, scooting herself closer to his mouth. His tongue darted out, grazing her lips, seeking her sweet spot. He found it, wet and swollen. For him? With a groan, he licked, teased, sucked. She writhed, moaned and moved her hips in rhythm, guiding her with her hands. He cupped her breasts, the rock-hard peaks of her nipples contrasting with the soft cushions surrounding them.

  She convulsed and called his name.

  Gasping, he rested his head on her mound. She stroked his hair, wrapping tendrils around her fingers. His cock throbbed.

  Afraid to speak, he listened to her breathing, to the faint gurgling from her belly.

  “Carter?” Her voice was husky.

  “Yes, Tiffany?” His wasn’t much clearer.

  “That was good. Great. Fantastic, actually.”

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  She traced the contour of his ear. “Your turn. What would you like?”

  Like? He’d like the moment to last forever. “To make you happy.”

  “You just did.”

  “Then I guess I’d like to make you happy again.”

  She worked her way out from under him and moved to the center of the bed. “Lie beside me,” she said.

  He stood and wiped his beard on the corner of the sheet, only then realizing he hadn’t made the bed this morning after Tiffany left.

  “Wait,” she said, rising to her knees She framed his face and kissed him on the mouth. When she drew back, she said, “I wanted to know what I taste like.”

  “Like Tiffany-flavored honey.”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t describe it that way.”

  “Well, I would, and I got it firsthand.”

  “Carter?”

  He could listen to her say his name all day. The way her voice lifted at the end, almost to a squeak. He didn’t think it was possible, but he hardened further. “Yes, Tiffany?”

  She giggled. “I think one of us has too many clothes on, and it isn’t me.”

  “I can fix that.” He shed his shirt, his pants, his shorts, and left them in a heap by her panties.

  “Much better,” she said, cupping his balls. She leaned forward and licked the tip of his penis. He locked his knees to keep them from buckling with the pleasure. “You taste good, too. Salty.”

  Control was spinning away. “Tiffany, stop.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I like it too much.”

  She stroked his length, then retreated to the center of the bed, still on her knees. “Do you have a condom?”

  He yanked open the nightstand drawer and found a foil packet at the back. Thank God. His fingers trembled as he ripped it open and sheathed himself.

  She pulled him onto the bed and straddled him, leaning forward so her breast hung inches from his mouth. He cradled it in his palm, suckled it while she centered herself over his erection, sliding back and forth along its length.

  Control slipped further away. He fought back, trying to think of anything at all to delay the inevitable. Nothing helped. “Tiffany, please. I want to be inside you. Come inside you.”

  She smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.” She took him in her hand and guided him to her entrance, admitting him in increments, withdrawing, taking a little more, until finally he was buried to the hilt.

  He grasped her hips, stopping her from moving. “Wait.”

  “Why? Don’t you like this?”

  “God yes, but—.”

  “So, enjoy. You don’t need to be so stiff.”

  He smiled despite hims
elf. “I thought that was a good thing, under the circumstances.”

  She wriggled. “I want to do something for you. Just for you, no strings.” Her hands covered his, and she took them from her hips to her breasts. “If it’ll make you happy to be doing something, I prefer your hands here.”

  Her hips lifted, sank, lifted sank, with a back and forth motion and some kind of twist that had him hanging onto control by a toenail.

  “You’re still fighting, Carter. I’ll bet you’re thinking about nasty, horrible things to keep from coming.”

  Yeah. Quadratic equations are pretty nasty. He clenched his teeth. God, not yet, not yet. Please.

  She reached behind her and cupped his balls. “And what’s the point of taking what should be glorious pleasure and thinking ugly thoughts? Seems it would spoil the effect.”

  She reached lower, stroked him and there was nothing more he could do to delay the explosion. His hips pumped to match her rhythm. He gripped her hips again, this time to pull her closer to him, to go deeper inside than he thought possible. He took control of the pace. Sensation layered on sensation. There was everything and nothing. Behind closed eyelids, bright lights and colors swirled and sparkled. He erupted, thrusting over and over in what had to be the most potent orgasm of his life. One beyond anything he’d ever imagined.

  When he could breathe, he opened his eyes. Tiffany hovered above him. He pulled her down so she was lying on his chest. Their heartbeats drummed as one. He tangled his fingers in her hair. “Do you always talk so much during sex?” God, what a stupid thing to say. Obviously the blood hadn’t returned to his brain.

  “Only when it’s something important.”

  He’d analyze that one later. He wrapped his arms around her back and sank into a sated doze.

  He awoke to find her spooned against him, her buttocks against his groin, his hand at her breasts. He nuzzled her neck, and she inched her hips backward to let him know she was awake. Another nudge let him know she was aware he was awake, too. He leaned over her and opened the nightstand drawer, fumbling through its contents, fingers searching desperately for what he hoped was another condom.

  Elated when he found two, he handed her one and dropped the other on the nightstand’s surface. “All I have,” he said.

  “We’ll work it out.” She tore the packet and together they slipped it over his erection. This time, he reveled in mutual pleasure, and although he wouldn’t have thought it possible, the experience was more exhilarating than the first. It was as if allowing himself to be pleasured freed him to give pleasure on an instinctive level.

  He slept more deeply this time, and dawn drifted between the slats of the shutters when he awoke, on his back, with Tiffany’s head pillowed on his chest. She lay on her side, her right leg extended along his, her left bent, nestled between his thighs. She stirred, and he whispered her back to sleep, enjoying her rich perfume, a combination of fruity shampoo, her own scent, and the musky aroma of their lovemaking. He wouldn’t deny it. He’d made love to her, and he’d face her “no strings” when he had to.

  Later, they used his last condom in the shower.

  “I’ll get more,” he said as he rubbed her dry with his bath towel. He took a breath and tried for a touch of humor as he asked, “How many?” Was last night all she wanted? Is that what she’d meant by “no strings?”

  She took a smaller towel from the rack and wrapped it around her head. She didn’t meet his gaze when she answered. “I should be around at least two more weeks. Get the repairs finished, get Grampa set up. I think there are openings at Sabal Palms, if I can talk him into moving. He keeps calling everyone there a bunch of old farts, but I know they’re his friends.”

  Two weeks. Not a one night stand. Maybe a two week stand, but he’d deal with that when the time came.

  He made pancakes and they sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Tiffany wore one of his button down shirts like a dress, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She ate one pancake and refused any more.

  “What’s wrong?” Was she regretting what they’d done?

  She fussed with her coffee cup. “I feel…guilty.”

  “For what?” She’d been an equal participant last night. More than equal.

  “About Grampa,” she said, her voice quavering. “I love him dearly. Really I do. But he can’t live alone in that big house anymore. And all I can think about is what happens if he can’t—or won’t—get into Sabal Palms. There’s really nobody else to look after him.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I must be a horrible person, but the thought of staying in one place makes me all jittery. Even if it’s to be with someone I love.”

  Breakfast lost all its appeal. He stood and cleared the table, scraping the uneaten pancakes down the disposal. While it ground away, his thoughts caromed in his head. If she couldn’t settle down to be near a blood relative, what chance did he have? And why was he thinking he could live with someone like Tiffany, all chaos and impetuosity? He’d probably go nuts before two weeks were over. Right now, it didn’t seem to matter.

  “You’re the wandering sort, then?” he asked, rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.

  “Army brat. Never stayed long in one place. I got used to being the new kid. Kind of liked it, actually. I knew if I didn’t fit in, it wouldn’t matter because I’d be gone before too long.”

  “So you housesit for a living? What kind of security is there in that?”

  “I take care of pets, too. And I’ve got basic office skills, so I can temp wherever I go for extra cash. I don’t need a lot of things.”

  Her emphasis on the word knotted his stomach. His life was full of things. “And you’re happy?” he asked.

  “I’ve always thought so,” she said, her voice a low whisper. After the span of several heartbeats, she went on. “And what do you do, Carter?”

  “I’m an independent marketing consultant.” The automatic lie slipped from his mouth. But this time, there was guilt attached.

  “Not one of those people who calls you at dinnertime, I hope?”

  He turned and gazed at a point over her shoulder “No, I spend most of my time at the computer, writing…reports and other dull stuff.”

  She looked as if she’d rather wrestle alligators. Knowing Tiffany, she probably would. And she’d be good at it. She gave a polite nod. “Whatever floats your boat.”

  “Pays the bills,” he said. “And I don’t have to commute beyond my study most days.”

  “I guess that’s a plus.” She finished the last of her coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher. “I should be going. Things to do, people to wait for, you know.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

  “Um … I have to pick up Grampa’s prescription later. I could save you a trip.”

  She must have caught his puzzled expression, because she came closer and smiled. Much closer, rubbing his groin. “You know. A two weeks’ supply?”

  “Oh. Yes. I’ll get my wallet.”

  “My treat.” She pecked his cheek and trotted toward the bedroom.

  Elated, flabbergasted, and totally bewitched, he leaned against the sink and watched her cute bottom sway under his shirt.

  For the next week, during the day, Carter sequestered himself in his office, writing, rewriting, and revising yet again. Nights were spent with Tiffany in his bed. On the couch. In the yard under the stars. Each night brought something new.

  Francesca La Forge met an untimely death, and Therese Storm blew into Beau Banner’s life. The words flowed from fingertips to the monitor, seemingly without the need of any intervention from his brain. Writing was exciting again. Fulfilling. The cycle fed itself. A productive writing day energized his nights. A night with Tiffany propelled his writing.

  It wasn’t just sex, he realized. There was a tenderness, an openness. Often, they simply lay in each other’s arms and watched a movie, or just talked. About everything. About nothing.

  One night, they sat o
n the couch sipping a Chardonnay. Tiffany raised her glass. Her eyes sparkled.

  “Are we toasting something?” he asked.

  “Grampa’s applied for his own apartment in Sabal Palms.”

  He tried to match the happiness on her face, but he feared it fell flat. “That’s good. Will he be moving in soon?”

  “Within a month,” she said. “If things go on schedule.”

  Would it be so wrong to wish there would be snags? About ten years’ worth. Chiding himself for his selfishness, he clinked her glass with his. “To schedules,” he said.

  “Carter?” Her voice was unusually tentative.

  He smiled and gave his automatic response. “Yes, Tiffany?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About?”

  “Grampa’s house will be fixed up soon. He’s going to sell it to cover the cost of the Sabal Palms arrangements for full care, meals, and all.”

  So much for his dream she might live next door. “Where will you go?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk about. I was thinking of sticking around here. Not your house, of course, but in the vicinity. That is, if there was a reason.” Her blue eyes held doubt.

  “Tiffany, if you’re looking for my opinion, God, yes, I want you around.”

  “So you’re not tired of me?”

  “Tired of you? Never. I’ve been dreading the day you’ll say you’re moving on. Your terms were ‘no strings,’ and I accepted them, but I hoped you’d change your mind.”

  She finished her wine and set the glass down on a coaster. “Can we celebrate?” Standing, she took his hand and tugged. He rose and chased her into the bedroom.

  We don’t run in the house, Carter. His father’s words invaded.

  He laughed. Shut up, Father.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  “I have to go to New York for a couple of days,” Carter said after another week of bliss. “New client wants a face to face.” Close enough. He gave her his spare key. “Feel free to use my place if you need to escape the repairmen.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “The smell of paint always gets to me.”

  Two days later he pulled into his garage, tired and stressed after the meetings with his publisher and publicist, the ones he begrudgingly attended because otherwise they’d make him go on the luncheon and book signing circuit. A light in the living room and another in his bedroom lifted his spirits. Tiffany must be here. He’d called when the plane landed, but she hadn’t answered.

  He pressed the remote to close the garage door behind him and let himself in through the utility room. Dropping the small blue bag he carried onto the kitchen counter, he called her name. When she didn’t answer, he stepped to the living room. If she wasn’t here, why were there lights on?

  He found her sitting on the couch, a book on the coffee table and a file folder in her lap.

  “How could you?” She waved the folder.

  “How could I what?” He looked at the book on the table more carefully. His book. The first Beau Banner novel.

  “Let’s start with lying to me and go on from there. You’re Grant Gardner.”

  “No, I’m Carter Worthington the Fourth.”

  “Semantics. Grant Gardner is Carter Worthington, Carter Worthington is Grant Gardner. You wrote these books.”

  He sank to the couch beside her.

  She got up and flounced to the easy chair. “I thought we had something special. And it’s all here. Every damn word, everything we did, everything we said, all on the page for everyone and his brother to read. Therese Storm? God, you could have found a better name. How dare you cheapen what we had?” Tears streamed down her face.

  “You went into my study. You went through my things.” It sounded stupid, even to him.

  “Yes, I did. But not to snoop. You could have locked the study door. Or even asked me not to go in there. But when you gave me the key to your house, that more or less implied I had the run of the place. All I wanted was a book to read, and I don’t have a local library card, and you have a whole damn library in there. I simply browsed your bookshelves and picked up this.” She grabbed the book from the table and opened it to the back flap, where his one and only portrait was displayed above his bio.

  “And then your damn phone rang, and I thought it might be important, so I picked it up. Reflexes of an office temp. And there was the picture of your grandfather on the desk.” She pounded on the book. “Without the beard, you look just like him. It clicked. And, furthermore—” She thrust the folder at him, scattering sheets of manuscript pages. “This was on your desk, in plain view.”

  “Tiffany, I can explain.” He got up, arms outstretched in supplication, and walked toward her.

  “And what makes you think I’d want to hear it? Goodbye, Carter. Or Grant. Or is it Beau?”

  She pushed him aside and ran out the front door. It slammed behind her.

  He trudged back to the kitchen and picked up the Tiffany bag. He held it for several moments, then took it into the bedroom and shoved it in the back of his nightstand drawer, along with the rest of his condoms. He wouldn’t be needing those, either.

  “No strings,” she’d said. For her, maybe. For him, it would take a while, but eventually, he’d be able to cut through the tangled net she’d wrapped around him. One more emotion he could draw on, but the thought gave him no comfort. He’d raised his hurricane shutters, but the added light was nothing compared to what Tiffany had brought every time she visited.

  Next door, repairmen came and went. The For Sale sign appeared in the yard, and a parade of realtors and potential neighbors tramped through. Grimbel had been a pain in the ass. Carter could live with whoever bought the place.

  He started his next Beau Banner book and lost himself in the writing. Words didn’t flow as easily, but they eventually hit the page. According to the calendar, summer ended, although the heat and humidity outside said otherwise. He hid in his air-conditioned comfort, venturing out only when necessary.

  One day, as he stood at the curb getting his mail, a moving van pulled up next door. He watched for several moments as movers unloaded cartons and set them on the sidewalk. A mini-van pulled up. The side door opened and two dogs raced out, followed by three small children. A frazzled blonde woman, late-thirties he guessed, did what she could to round everyone up.

  Head down, studying his collection of junk mail, he hurried inside, back to his refuge. He went online and ordered a white-noise generator. One that came with a headset.

  Two days later, an incessant ringing of the doorbell accompanied by violent knocking roused him from his bed. Six-thirty in the morning? He threw on a robe, hurried to the front door and pulled it open without thinking.

  Tiffany pushed inside. His immediate thought was that she’d been through another hurricane. Disheveled hair, wrinkled shorts, rumpled shirt clinging to her body. She dropped a package on the coffee table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what? The last time we spoke, you didn’t want to hear anything I had to say.”

  Her cheeks flushed hot pink. “You’re right. I was angry. And apparently I was wrong.” She leaned forward and opened the package. He saw the familiar white cover of the Advanced Reader Copy of the book he’d rewritten. The one he’d forgotten he’d told his publisher to send her on his trip to New York.

  “I moved around a lot,” she said, holding out the book. “It took a while to find me.”

  “Did you read it?”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “I almost threw it away, but I’d read everything, including all the cereal boxes where I was staying.” Tears streamed down her face.

  Afraid to approach, he crossed the room to the other end of the coffee table. “What you saw in the file was never intended for the book. It was something I had to write, to get what I was feeling out of me and onto the page. Then, I could draw on the emotions—emotions you let me feel for the first time in my life—and transfer them to my fiction. I would never have published
anything so personal.” She met his gaze and he took the book from her trembling hands. “If you’d have looked at it more objectively, you might have noticed I bared my soul there, too.”

  “I was too mad at you at the time.”

  He set the book down and took her hands. She didn’t pull away.

  “But when I read it.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “The end product, it was perfect. It was you and me, but private, you know. The same, but different. It hit me in the gut. I started driving when I finished the last page. Can you forgive me?”

  “Only if you can forgive me.”

  “Can we ever make something work between us? You’re so—”

  “Stiff?” he said. He drew her close enough so there was no doubt what he meant.

  She grinned. “And I’m so impulsive. And right now I have an impulse to—”

  “Let me guess.” He took her hand and led her toward the bedroom.

  Afterward, he pulled the bag out of the nightstand drawer. “For you. You ran off before I could give it to you.”

  Her eyes flew open wide at the Tiffany bag. “Carter, this isn’t … I mean, it’s too soon—”

  “Just open it,” he said. He watched as she withdrew the blue cardboard box, then the velvet one inside. She pried open the lid and the tears started again. “They’re beautiful. But you shouldn’t have.” She stroked the diamond stud earrings with a fingertip.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. There’s nothing ordinary about you, Tiffany Breeze, and I thought you deserved to have something as bright and sparkling as you are.”

  She splayed a hand over his chest. “I love you, you know.”

  He took the box from her and set it on the nightstand. “I love you, too. I think I have since Julia blew you into my life. What do you think about naming our first child after a hurricane?”

  “Maybe.” She wrinkled her nose. “But only if it’s a girl.”

  His heart soared at the implications. He caressed her warm, round breast. “All of a sudden, I’m feeling impulsive.”

  Romancing the Geek

  Stephanie's lifelong dream is to design toys—sweet, cuddly toys. Instead, she's hired as a glorified typist, forced to share an office with Brad, a geek, who's happy programming computer games full of explosions.

  Ignoring each other is their solution to co-existence. But when Brad has girlfriend troubles, he swallows his pride and asks Stephanie if she'll teach him how to talk to women. She agrees, but he's having trouble passing her exams.

  ♥ ♥ ♥