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A week off loomed in front of me after surgery. Assuming things went well. I gulped, thinking about rescheduling more clients. I couldn’t afford for things to go badly.

He pointed a finger at me. “Hey. You stop. No negative talk. I’m doing my best to pretend calm for your sake. I don’t need you riling me up. I’m going to be a wreck tomorrow in the waiting room.”

I shrugged and smiled at him. “What? It’s true. This is my last meal before anesthesia. I’m going to be cranky tomorrow with nothing in my stomach.”

“I’ll make it up to you when you can eat again. Any requests?”

He was right. I was spoiled. And not above using my illness to get more kitchen favors. “I’ve been craving scones.”

“Done. Any other requests?”

So many. Not kitchen related, I acknowledged as I admired his forearms as he lifted a forkful of vegetables from his plate. I shook myself before meeting his gaze. I kept my face innocent as I said, “Nope.”

We watched TV to relax after dinner. I’d done my best to find something gripping to keep us occupied, but I could tell from Jimmy’s fidgeting that neither of us were as focused as I’d hoped. My ability to think of anything but surgery had smashed against the reality that tomorrow was the big day. What if I didn’t wake up from the anesthesia? It happened. I was trusting Dr. Webb to fry my heart without going too far. Frickin’ laser beams. Sci-fi couldn’t compete with reality. I rubbed my chest, trying to ease the phantom ache. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

His smile was wry, but it still drew my gaze to his full bottom lip. The plump one I’d like to nibble on. “You have no idea how much I want to hear those words after you’re healed.”

My heartrate picked up, and my lips twitched at his fervent tone. “You think I’m going to roll out that old chestnut?”

His brows wiggled. “That’s what married couples do.”

“You make it sound like we’ve been married fifty years instead of five minutes. I like to think we can do better.”

“Yeah? Like what?” he asked, amused.

He was distracting me on purpose, trying to help me relax, but it was proof he had no clue how much I wanted him. Even now, I pictured him fifty shades of graying me into oblivion. A girl could dream. The pause stretched, and Jimmy’s face cracked into an expression of glee. He thought he’d won. Jimmy had asked a question, and I’d been thinking of sex. I shook myself as he prompted me.

“How you doing there, angel? Head in the clouds? I thought you were going to proposition me.”

“You wish.”

I narrowly avoided slapping myself in the forehead. My comebacks were—wait for it—legend-ary. Legendarily bad, in this case.

He held up his hands. “Guilty. Come on, give it your best shot.”

I cleared my throat. He was playing with me. That was sexier than my fantasy. I couldn’t let him down. “We’re like cocoa and marshmallows. You’re hot, and I want to be on top of you, melting.”

Jimmy’s expression went from stunned to appreciative in two beats. His slow clap made me laugh self-consciously. It was a stupid pickup line. Jimmy’s dark eyes danced as he responded.

“You must be a banana, because I find you a-peeling,”

I groaned. “Forget it. Game over. I can’t believe you’re bad at this.”

Jimmy chuckled, and the deep timbre washed over me, belying my protest. He was still sexy, dorky pickup lines and all.

“Someday I’ll show you how good I am.”

I couldn’t tell if it was confidence or competitiveness in his tone, but either way my nipples were there for it. Their hardened peaks pushed against my bra. “Promises, promises...”

All humor fled his expression as his gaze met mine, replaced with something darker, needier. I cleared my throat, trying to loosen some of the tension tightening it. No funny business. Not tonight. I squirmed, letting my mind wander. But soon.

“Is it wrong I’m excited for tomorrow now?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Nope. Sleeping with you every night and not being able to touch you is torture.” He forced a grin. “And now that I’ve made it awkward, let’s get ready for bed.”

In our room, I slid into one of Jimmy’s T-shirts. Our bedtime routine had evolved. I’d started out in full sweats as promised, but with every night spent wrapped in Jimmy’s arms, I burned. He was too hot. His body surrounded mine like a personal furnace. I’d succumbed to the inevitable and started leaving off layers when he was home. If Jimmy’s slow gaze from the shoulder playing peek-a-boo with the shirt’s neckline to where it ended at my thighs said anything, he appreciated the change.

He turned out the light and pulled me close, and I enjoyed the torture that was our habit. Some nights we talked softly before one of us dropped off. Other nights, I was too aware of his body behind mine. Each ridge of muscle and bulge was ingrained on my sensory memory. He was always a perfect gentleman, darn him.