“Two weeks?” She hadn’t believed he could pull it off. And two weeks … “What do I do about all that?”

He looked out at the gardens, as she did.

“I’d say we both know enough people who’d take care of it, especially if they can haul off tomatoes or whatever.”

“I haven’t been away for two weeks straight … ever. Not in one place, not when it wasn’t work-oriented.”

“You can work there, so can I, when we need to. It’s got a gym.”

“Now you’re toying with me.”

“Its own pool, oceanfront. It’s a quiet area, so you go for the beach, the views. You want more jazz, you head down to Nags Head or down to Myrtle Beach.”

“I don’t need the jazz. It sounds amazing.”

“Potential downside. It’s a drive, a substantial one. With two kids, two dogs.”

“I like kids and dogs.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Are your kids going to be all right with this?”

“They like you. Plus, beach.”

“I’d love it.”

Two weeks of beach and … nothing. She couldn’t imagine it.

“If they’re all right with it—really all right with it—I’m in. If they’re not, you need to take them anyway. It’s too good to miss.”

“I’ll talk to them. I know my kids. They’ll be fine with it.”

“Okay then. I’m going to check those potatoes.”

“I’ll deal with the salad. And how do you like your steak?”

“If I’m going to eat a hunk of meat, I want it rare.”

“Now we’re talking.”

They cooked their first meal together, ate on the porch while the sun eased toward the western mountains. They talked about his kids, the youth center, his work, hers. She found it just wonderful to talk about things that mattered in the every day.

“You’re always in charge of the potatoes.” Replete, Raylan sat back with his wine.

“I’m impressed with your salad and grilling skills. And as a Rizzo, I don’t say that lightly.”

“Wait till you taste my mac and cheese. Only from a box in a pinch,” he added when she narrowed her eyes. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”

“Jan makes exceptional mac and cheese as I recall.”

“See? I’ll put it on our beach menu.” Watching her, he poured out the last of the wine. “I like your face.”

Amused, she propped her chin on her hand. “Is that so?”

“Faces and body types are an interest of mine for obvious reasons. I drew yours once, your face, when we were kids.”

“You did?”

“Practicing. I drew Maya’s a lot. Usually gave her demon horns or a forked tongue. Your grandparents, such good faces. Sometimes I’d sit in Rizzo’s after school when Mom was on shift and try to draw faces of people who came in. It was easier to draw characters with masks or cowls, so I wanted to practice. I wonder if I had a little thing going even back then?”

“For art? Absolutely.”

“No, for you. Maybe a little thing. Seems to me I drew Cassie—remember Cassie?—as a snake girl, because she was sneaky. Not that I held that against her—I admired it. But I just drew your face. So might have had a thing. I sure as hell have one now.”

She reached out for his hand. “That’s a relief, because I have a thing going, too.”

“I like thinking about you when you’re not there. What’s she doing now? Maybe I’ll look out the window and she’ll be going to see Teesha next door. Or maybe I’ll drive to get groceries and see her out running. I didn’t know I could feel this way again. That I’d want to.”

Her heart just stumbled in her chest. She rose, gave his hand a tug so he stood as well. “I think we should take the dishes in, stack them up to deal with later.”

“Later works for me.”

“And we can give our very good dogs a chew bone while we go upstairs.”

“They deserve it.”

“And …” She moved into him, tipped her face to his. “Then later than that, we can deal with the dishes before we have some cappuccino on the front porch, look down on the lights of Traveler’s Creek, listen to the quiet awhile before we go upstairs again.”

“All of that,” he murmured before he kissed her. “I’ve got a bag in the car.”

She smiled. “You can get that later, too. Dogs and dishes, then I want to be with you. Just you, Raylan.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When Adrian woke in the morning curled up against Raylan in the middle of the bed, rain pattered lazily outside. Its steady murmur sounded like music. The light, a soft, quiet gray, seemed to drift, a gauzy curtain shimmering in the breeze whispering through the open windows.

Another day, she might have found it gloomy, just damp and gloomy. But now it struck her as romantic as Camelot.

So she pressed against him, body to body, skin to skin, trailing her lips over his face, the scruff of morning stubble. And felt him harden against her even as his eyes, sleepy and green, opened.

“Good morning,” she murmured.

“It already has possibilities.”

“Probabilities,” she corrected, and fisted her hands in his hair to bring his mouth to hers.

She wanted the heat, so she gave it, letting it spread, live embers smoldering to a spark. A spark igniting a low, slow flame.

She rolled onto him to take the lead, to take control; pleasing herself as she knew she pleased him.

Strong hands roaming over her thickened her pulse, a drumbeat with the music of the rain. Lips seeking lips to slide, slide, slide into the deep quickened her heartbeat, an echo to his. She wanted the taste of him—the side of his throat, his jaw, the hard line of his shoulder.

Then, again, his mouth, a wonder of sensations with tongues gliding, teeth grazing. A quick nip to tease; a breathy moan in response. And those tastes of him filled her until every sense coalesced into pleasure.

Her eyes locked with his, no words spoken as she shifted.

When she straddled him, she took him in slowly, slowly, deeply, deeply, to spin out that pleasure. And watched it conquer him even as it swamped her.

She’d taken him from a dream into a dream with everything soft and heated and druggingly beautiful. Lost in her, completely lost in her, he surrendered to her, to the moment, to what they made together.

In the hazy light, her long, agile body rose over his, rocked to her own languid rhythm while the sound of the rain closed them in, creating a world for them away from everything, everyone, but each other.

Her eyes looked into him, through him, gold and green and heavy. He saw pleasure in them, and power, and knowledge, and everything that made a woman compelling, dangerous, irresistible.

When she broke, casting herself over that rising wave, her head fell back, her body arched, her arms lifted so her hands scooped and turned through the wild beauty of her hair.

She moaned, sighed, a woman embracing her own power, taking her own triumph. And never stopped moving, never stopped her slow, steady beat.

He had to grip her hips, hold on to her to stop himself from snatching that control and taking his release when she shook her hair back and smiled down at him.