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He turns his head and shoots me a devil-may-care grin. The handsome way his face creases, how blue his eyes are, how happy he looks too—it’s like a kick to the chest.

What if I can’t leave him?

What if we have sex and it’s so good that I let down my defenses and actually admit to myself just how hard I’ve fallen for him, and then I’m too heartbroken to go back to New York?

Am I secretly dying for that to happen?

But that’s assuming Wyatt would want me to stay. And it’s pretty obvious that the only semi-romantic interest he has in me is purely physical. It’s all he feels for any girl he’s with. That’s just him. As much as I’d like to think I’m different—that he’d feel differently about me because we have so much history—I just don’t think that’s the case.

It hurts a little, if I’m being honest. But beggars can’t be choosers. And aren’t I getting what I asked for? I told myself I didn’t want love. I want kissing and touching and really great sex, and Wyatt is offering me all that on a silver platter. I have no right to complain.

But I do have a right to feel my feelings. I just wish they didn’t make this all so complicated.

I urge Penny into an all-out sprint, and we catch up to Wyatt in no time. His eyes flash with something like appreciation as we go nose-to-nose.

The fence comes into view, along with an enormous tree with bare branches that’s fifty or so yards ahead.

“The oak,” Wyatt shouts. “First one to the oak!”

Several heartbeats later, I reach up to slap a low-hanging branch at exactly the same time Wyatt does.

I still yell, “I win!”

“No, ma’am, you did not. I did.”

Wyatt is breathing hard as he circles around the oak’s wide trunk to face me. I can see the sweat glistening on his forehead and a slice of thick, well-muscled neck that peeks through his bandana.

I guide Penny forward, holding out my hand as I rub my thumb against the tips of my fingers. “I’ll take my money now.”

“You ain’t gettin’ jack because you didn’t win.”

“Don’t think I won’t reach inside that pocket myself.” I nod at his jeans.

He lifts his eyebrows. “I’d like to see you try.”

With a speed that startles both of us, I reach over and shove my fingers inside his pocket. The denim is soft, warm from the sun. He grabs my wrist and pulls out my hand, but when I try to pull back my arm, he refuses to let me go.

“Stop,” I wheeze, my sides seizing with laughter.

“I know what you’re really after.”

“What’s that?”

“A li’l bit of this”—he guides my hand to his chest, then moves it lower over his belly,lower, as he fights a fit of giggles—“and this.”

I feel his abdominal muscles bunching as he laughs. He’s so solid here, so broad and hard.

Somebody pinch me.I still can’t get over the fact that I’m able to touch him like this.

I lift my hand a little and curl my fingers, tickling him, and he immediately twists in the saddle as he gasps for air. Seeing him laugh this hard makesmelaugh hard. So hard that I can’t breathe.

“You knew,” I manage, “I’d do this. How did you”—I gasp—“forget how ticklish you are?”

“Because—” A beat passes. Another. “Bein’ around you—makes it hard to think—sometimes.”

My fingers go still. So does everything inside me as Wyatt’s eyes lock on mine.

A breeze ruffles the long, shaggy hair at his neck. He’s close enough that I can see the copper threads in his beard.