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“What’s wrong with the month of March?”

Julia had been on the verge of sleep. After Britt disposed of the condom, he’d rejoined her on the pallet. With the smoldering embers at her back and his warmth pressed all along her front because she’d thrown a leg over his thighs and cradled her head in the nook of his shoulder —that space on a man’s body was perfectly formed to hold a woman’s cheek—she’d been content to give in to the pull of slumber.

“Mmm?” she asked sleepily, loving the tickle of his chest hair against her cheek. Loving the solid lub-dub of his heartbeat against her ear.

“March,” he said again. “You said you hate orange marmalade, the month of March, and going to the dentist. I get the dentist. No one likes going to the dentist. The sound of the tools scraping against your teeth is just…” He shuddered dramatically. “And orange marmalade is understandable. I mean, I don’t hate it. But I’d much rather slather strawberry jam or grape jelly on a piece of toast. But March? What’s wrong with March?”

She wrinkled her nose. “What’s right with March is the better question. It’s bitterly cold. The snow on the ground is so old it’s gray. And everyone is cranky as hell because they can’t go outside without first putting on three layers of clothes. Statistics say violent crime peaks in Chicago over the summer. But I bet dollars to doughnuts that non violent crime, the petty stuff, all the misdemeanors and misconduct that stems from a general sense of malaise and irritation, happens in the month of March.”

When he hummed, she felt it vibrate against her cheek. “I reckon that’s the difference between a Southerner and a Midwesterner.”

“How so?” She snuggled closer, loving how his arm automatically tightened around her waist.

“In Charleston, March is the best month. The gray winter days are behind you, but summer's hot soupy days are still weeks off. March is when the flowers bloom. When you can sit outside and drink sweet tea without having to coat yourself in mosquito repellent. When you don’t have to worry about a hurricane blowing in while you’re fishing on the marshes.”

It was her turn to hum her appreciation. “That sounds lovely.”

“Have you ever been to Charleston?”

“Hmm-mmm.” She shook her head slightly and was rewarded with a warm kiss pressed to the crown of her head. “But I’ve heard good things.”

She thought he might invite her to go there with him. Thought he might want to show her his hometown. She was a little disappointed when all he said was, “It’s worth the trip for the food alone.”

Right.

Because they weren’t a couple. There wouldn’t be any trips. Hell, there wouldn’t be any nights beyond this one.

Slam, bam, thank-you-ma’am. Isn’t that what I agreed to? she thought a little despondently.

Then she thought, No. Don’t mourn what you won’t have. Revel in what you do have. You’re in a cozy cabin in the woods. There’s a warm fire at your back, and you’re lying in the arms of the world’s sexiest man. Things could be worse.

“What’s your favorite Charleston staple?” she asked, lazily drawing a shape around his navel up to his pecs and back down again.

“She crab soup,” he answered automatically.

“I’m assuming that’s different from he crab soup?” she quipped, proud of her own wit.

“It’s a crab bisque made from female crabs. It’s orange because of the roe they carry.”

That had her pushing up on her elbow to blink down into his handsome face. The glowing embers in the hearth turned his tanned skin to burnished gold and made his blue eyes darken to the color of the sea before a storm.

“Roe as in eggs ? It’s a soup made from pregnant crabs?”

He bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the horror on her face. “So let me see if I have this straight. You’d be fine if it were soup made from regular old crabs, male or female, but if it’s female crabs carrying eggs, that’s the bridge too far?”

“ Yes ,” she declared with a staunch dip of her chin.

He chuckled lowly. She felt the reverberation in her own chest, and it was such a delicious sensation.

Not as delicious as all the things he’d done to her over the last hour or so—truly, the man was a marvel. But wonderfully nice all the same.

“Tell me,” he said once he’d sobered. “Do you eat crab legs?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”

“Have you ever had caviar?”

“Once at a Southside fireman’s gala that my dad and my brothers made me go to.” She curled her lip. “I didn’t care for it. Too salty.”

“So you’ll eat crabs. And you’ll eat eggs. But a soup made with the crabs and their eggs is gross?”

“Don’t try to use logic when this is clearly an emotional topic. Soup made with pregnant crabs just feels wrong.”

He bit his bottom lip to contain his wide grin before nodding dutifully. “Noted. No logic. Pure emotion.” Then he tilted his head. “So what’s your favorite Chicago staple?”

She liked this part. The lazy, sated, getting-to-know-each-other part.

At least, she liked it with him .

She’d dated men who were complete shit at it. Men who rolled over and fell asleep directly after orgasm. Or men who stayed awake long enough for her to ask them questions, get one-word answers, and eventually realize they had no interest in her beyond what her body could offer them. They were far worse than the straight-to-sleep guys. At least the straight-to-sleep guys were honest.

But Britt?

He was genuinely curious about her. Genuinely funny and kind and smart. And unfortunately, instead of the sex having scratched her itch for him, it’d only inflamed it.

She wanted more. More of the sex. More of this pillow talk. More of him.

All of him.

It hit her then.

That… thing that existed between them, that chemistry or compatibility or…what was the word he’d used? Oh, right. Affinity. It went beyond the physical.

They were a mental match, too. Her intelligence aligned with his; she enjoyed his wit as much as he seemed to enjoy hers. They got each other. Simpatico.

Stir those things together in a pot, throw in a dash of Southern charm, and top it with his penchant for loyalty and honesty, and what she had was a big ol’ recipe for falling in love.

Yes , she thought forlornly. It’d be so easy to fall in love with Sergeant Britt Rollins.

Perhaps he’d sensed that from the start. Sensed that their mutual attraction would extend beyond the bedroom. Maybe that’s why he’d been so quick to poo-poo her offer for drinks. He’d wanted to head her off at the pass before she’d had the chance to take the leap over the ledge and?—

“Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?”

His question had her thoughts flying back to the present. “Oh.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I spaced out there for a second.”

“Where did you go?” A little line formed between his eyebrows.

Had she mentioned how lovely his eyebrows were? Jet black, slightly arched, thick without being overgrown?

Gah! Now she was waxing poetic about his eyebrows?

Damn, I’ve got it bad.

Although the truth was, she’d had it bad for him from the beginning. Now, it was just worse.

“Off in a direction that’s not worth mentioning,” she assured him. He’d made it clear he had no interest in a relationship. Mentioning how easy it would be for her to fall in love with him was a moot point. “What was the question again?”

He narrowed his eyes like he wanted to press her. But decided not to—thankfully—because he said, “I was asking about your favorite Chicago staple.”

“A steak sweet. Hands down.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “And that is…?”

“It’s a steak sandwich dipped in a sweet sauce made at one place and one place only. Home of the Hoagy. It’s on 111 th Street. It’s a big, sloppy mess to eat, but it’s worth every stain you get on your shirt.”

Maybe when we get back to Chicago, we can go there.

The words were perched on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed them down because… one night only .

“I’ll have to give it a try.”

She parroted his earlier words back to him. “It’s worth the trip.”

After resuming her previous position, she was free to run her hand over his torso. His crinkly chest hair tickled her palm. His left nipple hardened under her fingertips. And when she slid her hand down his belly, she smiled softly at how his stomach muscles tensed.

If all they had was the one night, she wasn’t going to waste it on sleep.

Before she could wrap her hands around him, however, her fingers brushed lightly over the puckered wound on his flank. She was instantly distracted.

She practiced with her service weapon twice a week. She’d seen plenty of death by way of a round traveling at 1300 miles per hour. But she’d never met anyone who’d actually been shot.

Despite what the movies would have everyone believe, most FBI agents didn’t spend their careers dodging bullets. In fact, most of her colleagues had never fired their service weapon in the line of duty.

“How did this happen?” She pushed back onto her elbow.

He met her gaze full-on, but his expression was shuttered.

“Oh.” She nodded. “Is this one of those super-secret soldier things that’s been buried in a file in the basement of the Pentagon?”

He took a moment, seeming to consider. Then he shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a part of my past that’s been ‘redacted out the wazoo,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

“So, then, yes.”

“Let’s just say it involved a raid on an enemy compound, and I darted left when I should’ve dodged right.”

It wasn’t anything close to a real answer. But she understood what it was to be the keeper of classified information. She didn’t press him further. Instead, she changed gears.

“And this?” She ran a gentle finger over the scar on his forehead. “Is this another injury from the blacked-out part of your file?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “ That is a souvenir from my misspent youth.” When she lifted an intrigued eyebrow, he continued. “You know I told you Knox got his start by boosting cars?”

She nodded.

“Well, sometimes I tagged along. And this…” He reached up and tapped the damaged skin. “Is from when we crashed a Jaguar into a guardrail while running from the police. Knox walked away with a broken arm. And I came away needing about twenty stitches. We didn’t have medical insurance, though. So Knox made a homemade splint with a set of drumsticks, and I made do with butterfly bandages.”

It explained the uneven, jagged edges of the wound.

“And hence, your love of adrenaline was kindled.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “To quote Lady Gaga, I was born this way. The Rollins men come hardwired for action and intrigue. Knox feeds his hunt for dopamine with shady shit. I feed mine with harrowing missions and mayhem.”

“You fed it,” she corrected.

Something shifted behind his eyes. “Right.” He nodded. “Past tense.”

Her investigator’s instincts kicked in along with her curiosity. “Something tells me it’s not past tense?”

“I satisfy myself with fast rides down narrow country lanes, base jumping, hang gliding, and tossing myself out of the occasional airplane.” He shrugged again. “It’s not quite as thrilling as dodging—and sometimes not dodging—bullets. But it’ll do in a pinch. And then there’s this.” He reached up to kiss her mouth, his lips lingering until her toes curled. “This is quite the adrenaline rush.”

“Mmm.” She hummed against his mouth. Then she was reminded of the kiss they’d shared in the kitchen, and she pulled back to skewer him with a hard stare. “Is that why you kissed me this morning? Because you were looking for a hit of dopamine?”

He had the grace to grimace. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first moment I saw you. But this morning, I used that as an excuse to keep you from going into the pantry looking for Peanut’s cat treats.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Because…” She drew out the word.

“Because that’s where Knox and Sabrina were hiding. Peanut, that damned cat, almost blew the whole thing.”

“Scoundrel!” She slapped his shoulder. “Villain!” she added for emphasis. “They were in the pantry? Just five feet away from me the whole time?”

“I know.” He nodded, looking guilty. “It was a lowdown, dirty trick. But I can’t regret it.” He shook his head. “Don’t ask me to regret it. It’s one of my life’s highlights.”

She opened her mouth to question him further, but he stopped her by palming her ass and pulling her harder against him. A fresh flame of desire ignited low in her belly.

“I got the impression, before you got distracted by my bullet wound, that you were thinking about round number two. Did I read that wrong?”

She bit her lip and lifted a teasing eyebrow. “No, you did not.”

“Good,” he rumbled. “Then let’s use our mouths for something better than talking. What do you say?”

“I say I like the way you think.” When he went to push her onto her back, she stopped him. “Hang on a minute. It’s my turn to play with you .”

Desire sparked in his eyes and had a smile playing with the corners of his mouth. He folded his hands behind his head. His tone was indulgent and arrogant when he said, “Go on then. Do your worst.”

She did.

Oh, she definitely did.

By the time she straddled his hips and lowered herself onto the part of him she’d paid particular attention to, his indulgence had been replaced with a burning need, and his arrogance had been replaced with gasping pleas for mercy.