And I know why.
Because my mind is on tonight.
My body is reaching for this evening.
My whole being reaches for possibilities, for chances.
I said yes, knowing the danger. Knowing the risk—the risk of capsizing the life I’ve carved out in this town.
He’s my neighbor.
I have to see him every day. I have a kid who’s happy. A business that’s growing. Friends who support me.
Do I truly want to risk all of that for a roll in the hay?
For a dinner?
For a night with him?
He wants more. He wants a future. He wants a Mrs.
I want none of that.
I want my life. The one I’m finally having.
Why, then, did I say yes?
As I survey the green beans in my garden, I flash back to last night.
To how I felt when he came over. When he asked me to have dinner.
A giddy sensation whirls through me out of nowhere.
I set a hand on my belly, smiling.
That’s why I said yes.
Because of that feeling—a little dizzy, a little drunk. But it’s a good dizzy, a good drunk.
And he’s a good man.
I can manage whatever this is. Whatever tonight becomes. We’re mature, responsible adults. Surely we won’t be the first neighbors in the history of the world to act on an attraction, then tuck it away and return to the way we were.
Yes, that’s how we will do it.
We will do it the smart way.
The adult way.
The can I still borrow a cup of sugar in a year’s time way.
Almost as if he can read my thoughts, I hear his voice.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
I turn to find the most handsome, charmingly sarcastic man I’ve ever met wandering across his yard toward mine, holding a cup of tea. I stand, unable to wipe the flirty smile from my face. He’s so delectable in his blue scrubs as I catalog his features. His freshly shaven jaw, his deep brown eyes, his toned arms.
And most of all, his smile. Confident, happy, and genuine.
My stomach flips.
“Such a shock to see me outside in my front yard, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Are you sure you’re not stalking me?”
I arch a brow. “I was going to say the same thing to you.”
He laughs. “Guilty as charged, then.”
“Might as well slap the handcuffs on me too.”
His eyes light up, like they’re awash with dirty thoughts. Maybe we’re both being totally honest. Maybe we’re both saying damn the risks because . . . this desire is powerful. “I’m amenable to that,” he murmurs.
Those soulful brown irises darken, and a current zaps through me. I want to rope my arms around him and beg him to kiss me soft, then hard, so hard it’d be like he was fucking me with his mouth.
Shit.
I need to get it together.
“I’m working from home most of the day,” I offer, simply to say something besides Take me to bed.
In a heartbeat, his expression shifts from playful and to practical. “The furniture delivery is coming by around eleven. I thought I would be able to be home for it, but I have to . . .” He makes a snipping gesture with his hands.
“Ah. You are relieving a dog of his most prized possessions.”
“I am.”
“Do you want me to let them in?”
“Would you?” He sounds as if I just said I’ll deliver him chocolate from Paris every day for the rest of his life.
“I’d be happy to. That is, if you’re comfortable giving me a key.”
He taps his chin. “That’s a good question. Are you planning on rifling through all my drawers?”
“Just the interesting ones, like your sock drawer.”
“Oh, by all means, go right ahead, then. If you want to find the really fascinating stuff, don’t forget the utensil drawer. It’s to the right of the dishwasher.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ve been meaning to look at your spoons. Spoons tell you so much about a man.”
“Don’t forget to check out the knives, then, too. That should tell you everything you need to know.”
I crack up, loving that the man gives such clever innuendo. “And perhaps your nightstand drawer?”
He growls, a low, sexy rumble. “Perhaps yours.”
I tug at the neck of my T-shirt. “You’d find . . . very interesting things.”
Another groan emanates from his throat, so damn sexy. “You’re making it very hard to go to work.”
“Am I?” I ask, unable to resist this dive well past innuendo and straight into naughty land.
“Yes, but Sparky the Wonder Pup has been fasting all morning, so I can’t leave him hanging.”
“Pun intended.”
“Pun always intended.” He scratches his jaw, exhaling. “I’ll leave a key under the mat. Thank you for helping me. You’re an angel.”
“You think I’m an angel?” I ask, jutting out my hip the slightest bit.
“Are you telling me you’re a devil instead, January?” His question comes out a little husky, a little smoky. I step closer, getting into his space. I want to feel the vibrations between us, the energy that seems to be intensifying by the second. When he asked me to dinner last night, it’s as if that unleashed all of the unacknowledged heat between us, and now we’re reveling in it.
