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Chay laughed. “What goes around comes around, right?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

The accommodations were sparse but comfortable. The flight was long. Bianca slept through much of it, but even though Chay hadn’t had much sleep, he was too wired to do more than doze.

They landed at Vandenberg Air Force Base. The time difference made it late afternoon.

The Santa Monica Municipal Airport, where Chay had left his Silverado, was just a twenty-something-minute taxi ride away. The trip from there to Chay’s place took another twenty minutes.

Soon, he was pulling the truck into the small garage that adjoined his house.

His cottage.

Hell. His shack.

He’d bought it because of its location on a mostly forgotten stretch of beach that was usually home to more sea lions and seals than people. Shorebirds danced at the ocean’s edge, and sunsets were spectacular. As far as Chay was concerned, those things more than made up for what the place lacked in size and amenities, but as Bianca stepped down from the truck, it hit him that a woman accustomed to city living might not see things the same way.

At least she wouldn’t find the place untidy. Years of military training had made him a stickler for neatness, but knowing things would all be in their proper places wasn’t much comfort when he unlocked the door that led from the garage to the kitchen, stepped back and motioned her past him.

She stopped just on the other side of the threshold.

Not a good sign.

“Told you it was small,” he said quickly.

Nothing.

He cleared his throat. “You know, I just realized…We should have stopped to pick up some things. Toothbrushes. Well, no. I have this humongous pack I bought on my first and last visit to one of those giant discount stores. A comb and hairbrush, then. No problem. You can use mine. Although if you prefer…”

He clamped his lips together.

Jesus.

He was as nervous as a kid on his first date.

Maybe he’d been crazy to bring her here. Not to California. To his home. It wasn’t too late. There were endless motels and hotels up and down the coast. Sure, they’d both said they’d had it with hotels, but—

Bianca swung towards him, her eyes, her lips, her entire face bright with pleasure.

“It’s perfect!”

Perfect? He looked around him. Well, the room had all the right appliances, and two walls of glass-fronted cabinets. It had a Mexican-tile floor—the original owner must have had a thing for Mexican tile because the floors that weren’t oak were tile. And, yeah, there was the kitchen table he’d made himself from one hell of a chunk of driftwood…

But perfect?

“Well,” he said cautiously, “I don’t know that I’d call it—”

Bianca put her arms around his neck.

“I grew up in a monstrosity my mother called an antique. The Wilde house is gorgeous, but you can get lost going from one room to another. My New York apartment… Well, you saw it. This—this is perfect.”

Chay laughed, put his arms around her and linked his hands at the base of her spine.

“I think Goldilocks said something similar.”

She shook her head. “It couldn’t have been Goldilocks.”

“I’m pretty sure it was, honey. You know: ‘This one is too big, this one is too small, this one is just—’”