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“I was physically sick when I realised Doug was serious.” She’d been disoriented. Like her mum after a heavy night on her favourite white powder. “His accusations were worse than the cops or anyone else. They were just doing their job.”

“What did you do?” He pressed a kiss to her hair, barely a touch, but it warmed her from the outside in.

“I told him he wasn’t funny. If he thought that, we’d been making a mistake.” And Lucy had blessed whatever instinct had kept her from telling Doug about her mum’s death.

“You built a hospital-in-the-home for Cam.” He rubbed a thumb and forefinger over her pearls. “You wear your gran’s pearls. You tend their business.”

Her hand covered his on the pearls, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m unreliable.”

“You’re fierce and protective where you love. You weren’t responsible for your gran’s death.”

A pardon, one she hadn’t allowed herself to accept from her grandpa. Niall manoeuvred himself around on the lounge until he was stretched full length with Lucy cuddled against his chest. He pressed her head to his heart, and his support was echoed in the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t know why I’m crying.” Lucy scrubbed her cheek.

“You’re crying because it’s your gran’s birthday, and she’s not here anymore. You’re crying because your granda died, and you’ll never see his like again. And maybe even a bit for your mam.”

“I’m sorry.” She clutched his damp shirt, hiccupping to a halt.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he growled against her ear. “Look at me, Liùsaidh.”

Her stomach did backflips when he used her full name. Because of the music in his Irish lilt. Because he was the only person who called her by her full name. Because using her given name made concrete the connection between her and her gran. She lifted her head. His face was close to hers. Lucy had watched him for days now, knew his patience was real, knew he took his time with a task because his self-respect demanded it. Doing something the right way was more important than speed or money to him. He wouldn’t tell her something just to make her feel better.

He caressed her jaw. The pads of his fingers were rough from the honest work he did each day, yet exquisitely tender. “You control this.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead and ran his nose down her cheek. Drawing his head back, his hands rested at her waist. He was offering himself without conditions.

Lucy couldn’t believe she could just reach out and take. With care, she lifted the pearls from her neck and placed them on the coffee table beside them. Cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him, desire threaded through with gratitude. His kiss was lovely, slow and sumptuous, and she let herself sink into it. When his tongue traced her upper lip, she opened her mouth on a sigh.

“You kiss like you work,” Lucy marvelled, her hands holding his head for the second she could bear to lift her mouth from his. “Striving for excellence.”

His generosity dispelled the caution that was her constant companion. Lucy relaxed against him, knowing he’d take her weight. She nuzzled along his collarbone, searching for the source of the scent he carried with him. This unhurried dance was almost innocent: her hand sliding under his sweater, his indrawn gasp when her palm covered his nipple, her moan when he kneaded the back of her neck.

“Let me undo your hair?” His fingers slid through her plaited skein, teasing tendrils free.

“That feels wonderful.” Lucy sighed. His gentle scalp massage radiated pleasure to her toes. Wanting to see him, she pushed herself upright.

“I’ve wanted to get my hands on your hair since the day we met,” he growled, and her muscles unravelled some more. “You should wear it out more often.”

“I like your hands.” Lucy caught one between hers, holding it palm up while she traced the outline of each finger and thumb, then pressed a kiss to its centre. “I watch when you work. There’s poetry in them and reverence and beauty. I’m babbling.” She rested her forehead on his chest.

“We can babble together.” He wrapped her close, his cock between them, straining against his jeans, while his caress of her spine was light.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Lucy murmured, wriggling and enjoying the groan he couldn’t silence. Being with him brought a kind of freedom. He allowed her to be in the moment, to take pleasure in small things, to not always be on guard.

“It might not mean anything”—he gritted his teeth—“but it sure as hell feels like something.”

“We could have an affair.” She walked her fingers down his chest, toward his belt buckle. An affair with him would include laughter and conversation and respect. He didn’t know, but respect was his secret weapon in seduction.

“You’re going to ravish me?” His hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her more comfortably onto his erection.

Lucy moved her hips.

“I think what you just did is X-rated in movies,” he managed. “More please.”

She stilled. “I shouldn’t tease, but you’ve made me feel better. Thank you for tonight.”

“Do you want to thank me some more?” He waggled his eyebrows, his gaze solemn.

“Mixing desire and gratitude is a recipe for disaster.” Lucy kissed his chin, then unhooked her leg to sit at his hip. “Believe me, I know.”