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“Agent O’Toole!”

The deep, resonant sound of Britt Rollins’s voice made Julia smile. But she wiped her expression clean in the next instant.

Despite her dreaming of finding an excuse to visit Goose Island to see him again, this wasn’t a social call.

“Hello again, Sergeant Rollins!” She lifted her voice above the noise of a street sweeper as it chuffed and hissed on the road behind her. Then, she eagerly watched Britt make quick work of the expanse between BKI’s front door and the high, wrought iron gate.

He wore faded jeans, a classic black biker jacket, and his signature Marvel T-shirt. His hair was longer than she remembered. It stuck up in wavy tufts and curled around his ears like a lover's fingers. He’d let his facial hair grow too. Previously he’d sported something slightly more than a five-o’clock shadow. Now, he had a well-trimmed beard that followed the lines of his angular jaw.

It all suited him. The added hair made him look less like the boy next door and more like the man next door.

Hubba, hubba.

She’d almost convinced herself that he wasn’t really the sexiest thing on two legs. Convinced herself that his muscles didn’t really coil under his clothes like knotted rope. Convinced herself that his long lashes didn’t really cast sooty shadows across his cheeks.

But who was I trying to kid? All of that is true.

“I know it’s cliché.” She held out her hand for a shake after he’d stepped through the open gate. “But long time no see.”

Something skittered through those crystalline eyes of his, but it was gone so quickly that she decided she imagined it. Then she forgot everything, including her name, when his fingers slid into her grip and a frisson of… something tripped up her spine.

“Rafer tells me you’re here to talk about Knox.” He inclined his head toward the big, redhead in the guardhouse. “What’s my brother gone and done this time?”

“It’s a long story.” She watched him closely as she posed her next suggestion. “You guys got some of that motor oil you pass off as coffee inside?” She hitched her chin over his shoulder toward the factory. “I could use a kick. It’s already been a long morning.”

It wasn’t a lie. Her cat Binks had startled her awake at four-thirty with his repeated—and rather dramatic—attempts to bring up a furball. The racket had disturbed Gunpowder, who’d squawked his disapproval before starting in on his rendition of Tenacious D’s “Fuck Her Gently”—a holdover trick from his previous life as the office pet of a notorious weapons dealer. With the cat and the bird making noise, the two dogs had decided it was time to engage in a WWE-style smackdown ranging from the foot of her bed to the pillow she’d shoved over her head.

Needless to say, she’d given up on getting that last hour of sleep and had stumbled from under the covers to start her day. Now she felt that lost hour, and the only solution was caffeine.

Correction: more caffeine.

Of course, the main reason for her asking to go inside BKI was to get a look around. To take a peek into the faces of Britt’s coworkers. To let her gut get a feel for whether or not the Black Knights—Britt Rollins included—were hiding something.

Namely, a fugitive by the name of Randal Knox Rollins.

Britt’s gaze followed the hitch of her chin toward the imposing facade of the three-story structure. For a second, she thought he might decline to invite them in. And that had her FBI instincts perking up. Then he motioned for them to follow him across the grounds, and she figured his slight hesitation derived from his annoyance at being forced to talk about his ne’er-do-well brother.

She got the impression he’d lost more than a few hours of his life speaking to the authorities about Knox.

A cloud floated across the sun and had her glancing into the sky. On Goose Island, the towering skyscrapers of downtown didn’t blot out the heavens. She had no trouble seeing the bright blue of the morning was quickly turning overcast.

Some years summer clung to the city with a dogged grip, refusing to let go until well into October. Other years it surrendered as easily as the Jedi gave up after Order 66. Just poof . Here one minute, gone the next.

“What?” she asked when Britt looked back at her with an expression she couldn’t read.

That was the thing about him. Despite his jagged forehead scar, he had an affable face. The kind of face she’d assume would be transparent, every emotion there for the world to see. But the opposite was true. Most times, she couldn’t get a bead on him.

“Just wondering how you’ve been, Agent O’Toole,” he said in that Lowcountry drawl that had her dreaming of fried okra, sweet tea, and porch swings.

Before she could answer, Dillan piped up. “And what about me, Rollins? Haven’t you been wondering how I’ve been?”

Britt chuckled. The deep, sexy sound swirled around in Julia’s ear like a warm tongue.

“Sure, Agent Douglas.” They’d made it to the front door. Britt pulled the metal slab wide. “How have you been?”

“Bored stiff,” Dillan admitted, waving for Julia to precede him over the threshold. “O’Toole and I have been on what amounts to desk duty since the McClean case. But now here we are. Our first real case brings us back to Black Knights Inc. What are the odds?”

Britt didn’t answer. He was too busy watching Julia as she brushed by him.

She would swear she could feel his body heat reaching for her. Swear she could sense an invisible force pulling her toward him, like the Death Star’s tractor beam had pulled in the Millennium Falcon.

He felt it too, didn’t he?

A quick glance showed his face was as enigmatic as ever.

Grr. Hiss. Boo.

The custom motorcycle shop was exactly as she remembered it: huge and loud and full of hand-built machines that made dollar signs dance in front of her eyes. Hair metal boomed from the speakers on the second floor. The smell of grease guns hung in the air. And Britt’s coworkers were all hard at work with grinders, paint sprayers, and TIG welders that spat out sparks like mini Fourth of July fireworks.

“It’s a crazy day!” Britt yelled above the chaos. “We have three custom orders that need to ship out by the end of the week and a half dozen production bikes that are on backorder! Why don’t we take this into the kitchen!”

She nodded her consent. One, they needed a quiet place to talk about his brother. Two, surely the kitchen was where they kept the coffee.

Ever the vigilant fed, she took note of the half-bath they passed on their way down a hallway decorated with rusty motorcycle license plates.

No Knox Rollins in there.

Her eyes darted around the industrial—yet somehow still homey—kitchen as soon as they entered. There was a large center island, a commercial-sized refrigerator, and a gas oven that looked like it belonged in a chef’s house. But…

No Knox Rollins here either.

There was a rather large coffee maker on the counter, though. It sent up a siren’s song, and she wondered if Britt would think her rude if she helped herself.

“Agent O’Toole! Agent Douglas! What are you two doing here?” Looking as classy and put together as always, Eliza Meadows emerged from a pantry while wiping her hands on the cherry-red apron tied around her waist. “Has there been some new information about Senator McClean or?—”

“No, no.” Julia shook her head. “Nothing like that. We’re here to talk to Sergeant Rollins.”

“Britt?” Eliza glanced at the man in question. “Why?” Her gaze swung back to Julia. “What did he do?” Her tone turned matronly. So did her stance as she shoved her hands onto her hips and pinned Britt with a dour look. “What did you do?”

Britt threw up his hands. “Nothing! I swear! They’re here about Knox.”

“Oh.” Eliza grimaced. “Right.” She untied her apron and left it atop the counter. “I’ll make myself scarce then.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Britt told her, but she was already on the move.

Once she pulled even with him, she patted his shoulder in consolation, went up on tiptoe to hug him, and whispered something in his ear. Julia assumed it was words of comfort or encouragement.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” she called over her shoulder once she reached the doorway. Then she disappeared through the opening, and Julia, Britt, and Dillan were left alone in the kitchen.

“Take a seat. Both of you.” Britt waved to the barstools shoved beneath the lip of the island. After Julia snagged a seat, his gaze caught hers and held. “You wanted coffee, right?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she said nonchalantly, although the gleam in her eye when she darted a glance at the carafe probably gave away her desperation.

Well, that and the drool hanging off my bottom lip.

Britt poured the fragrant, steaming liquid into a mug and slid it her way. “You take it black if I recall.”

She had the urge to preen and bat her lashes because he remembered how she took her coffee, proving how ridiculous her obsession with him was.

Note to self. Try fantasizing about someone else the next time you reach into the top drawer of your bedside table.

“Agent Douglas?” Britt held up a second mug, but Dillan waved him away.

“This one drinks enough for both of us.” Dillan hooked a thumb in Julia’s direction as she took her first swallow of the thick, rich brew. The smoky, carbony flavor melted over her tongue and tickled the part of her brain that was addicted to the lovely buzz of caffeine. “Besides, I try to stay away from all psychoactive substances. My body is my temple, after all.”

Julia refrained from rolling her eyes.

But just barely.

Britt pointedly poured himself a cup of coffee while eyeing Dillan—she fell a little bit in love with him for that—and then hitched his chin toward the pie stand topped with fresh muffins and scones. “Help yourself.” His accent made it sound more like help yahself . And all the times she’d imagined him shirtless and sweaty and telling her about the unspeakable things he planned to do to her naked body slid through her mind and liquified her bones from the marrow out.

It was a good thing she was sitting down.

Her stomach growled. But she wasn’t sure if it was from lust or hunger. And she didn’t dare reach for a muffin even though they looked delicious. She was afraid her hands were shaking.

Dillan didn’t reach for a muffin either because…he was Dillan —the man avoided refined sugar, fearing it would reduce his six-pack to four. And she realized seconds had ticked by without anyone making a move or saying anything when Britt finally cleared his throat.

“So what’s my brother done this time?”

Right. That’s why she was here. To talk about his brother, the fugitive. Not to ogle the way his T-shirt clung to his biceps when he shrugged out of his leather jacket and tossed it over the metal chair pushed under the bistro table in the corner. Not to notice the bulge at the front of his jeans when he hooked his thumbs into his pockets. Not to get sucked into the whirlpools of his icy-blue eyes when he stood across the island from her and watched her face closely.

“When’s the last time Knox called you?” she asked instead of answering his question.

He crossed his arms over his chest. She didn’t notice how it made his shoulders bunch into round balls.

Okay, so I noticed. But only a little bit.

“The last phone call I had from Knox was a few months back. Right around the time y’all were investigating the shooting at the senator’s house. Knox told me he’d gotten an early release. Said he was already on to something big.”

“Mmm.” She frowned into the steaming liquid in her mug as an excuse to drop his gaze. It was hard to think when she was looking directly at him. “And did you question him about what that big thing was?”

“Honestly?” Something in his voice—a roughness maybe?—had her glancing up. “I didn’t want to know. I’ve learned it’s better to stay out of Knox’s business. Plausible deniability and all that.”

She nodded and felt a pang of sympathy for his plight. She also wanted to sigh with relief that he wasn’t caught up in his brother’s mess. But both of those things were eclipsed by the realization that, unless things changed and Knox sought out Britt for help, she’d have no excuse to return to Black Knights Inc.

Damn, girl. You got it bad , that little voice whispered. To which she immediately replied, No shit.

“But something tells me you’re not going to let me keep my head buried in the sand on this one,” he continued. “Something tells me the time for plausible deniability has passed.”

Dillan was the one to answer. “We can keep you in the dark if that’s what you want. But then my next question would be, without knowing what your brother has done, would you be willing to call us the instant you hear from him? Or would familial loyalty stay your hand?”

Britt’s Adam’s apple bobbed up the length of his tan throat. Julia saw a flicker of indecision in his eyes.

“I reckon you’re right.” Britt sighed with resignation. “Unless I know what he’s done, my first instinct will be to help him. So come on.” He made a come-hither motion with his fingers. “Give it to me with both hands and two smoking barrels.”

Julia took a deep breath before launching into the story Agents Keplar and Maddox had told her. She used softer language and employed far fewer attacks on Knox’s character than the South Carolina agents had. And yet, despite her retelling the tale as gently as possible, the longer she spoke, the more still Britt got.

By the time she finished, he’d turned to stone. Not a single breath lifted his broad chest. Not a single heartbeat pulsed in the prominent veins running up the sides of his neck. And his jaw was cinched down so tight that she imagined it’d take a can of WD-40 to unhinge it.

Without her words echoing around the room, quiet filled the space. She became aware of the other noises in the kitchen. The ice maker in the refrigerator dropped a load into the bin with a muted rumble. The faucet at Britt’s back leaked a single drop of water into a sudsy pot with a soft plop . And from somewhere close behind her, a familiar purr sounded.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Peanut—a ridiculous name for a cat the size of a small pony—sniffing at the crack beneath the pantry door.

Glad for the distraction, she headed for the rotund tom instead of continuing to watch Britt struggle not to bleed out from the bomb she’d just dropped on him.

“Hello again,” she murmured, grabbing Peanut under his round belly and trying to stand.

She failed on her first attempt. She’d guess he weighed three times more than her own sweet, hairball-prone Binks. But she was successful on her second try and settled him comfortably in her lap once she retook her seat on the barstool.

He immediately went to work full-time at the biscuit factory. And when she gave him the requisite cheek massage, his motor turned over. His purr filled the room.

It was a comforting sound and gave her the courage to glance back at Britt, hoping he was closer to coming to terms with his new reality.

No such luck.

He looked as stony and as unreadable as ever.

She got it. Knox hadn’t exactly been a model citizen. The car theft, identity fraud, and embezzlement had been more than enough to warrant the time he’d spent behind bars. But none of that compared to murder.

“I can’t believe it.” Britt finally spoke. The gruffness of his voice made her wish he hadn’t because she could hear his pain in every word.

“I wish I were wrong,” she murmured, wincing when Peanut’s overzealous kneading breached the fabric on her suit pants and reached her skin. “But his handlers in Charleston sound certain of the facts.”

“Fuck.” He swiped an agitated hand through his dark hair, causing his cowlick to stick up. Then, he winced. “Sorry for the profanity.”

“No need to apologize,” she waved him off. “It’s a fucking fuck of a situation, that’s for fucking sure.”

Just as she’d hoped, her attempt at levity had the tension in his shoulders softening.

“Born and raised Chicagoan here.” She hooked a thumb back at herself. “The F-bomb is pretty much mandatory ’round these parts. I’d be far more scandalized if you’d said shoot or darn .”

He chuckled, but there was no real humor in it.

And that was her cue.

As much as she’d love to sit there and drink in every subtle shift of his muscles, every minute expression that crossed his handsome face, every lovely word that drawled out of his mouth, they’d come to see if he’d heard from his brother. He hadn’t. Thus, their mission was complete, and it was time to return to the office.

Peanut meowed his displeasure when she dumped him off her lap. She was so used to pet hair that she didn’t bother wiping the gray fur off her slacks when she stood.

“Sorry to hit you with this kind of bad news and run,” she said. “But Agent Douglas and I need to let our colleagues on the East Coast know what we found here.” She made a face. “Or, rather, what we didn’t find here.”

She pulled her business card from her jacket pocket—yes, calling cards were still helpful in her line of work—and slid it across the island.

“That’s my office phone. I’ve written my cell number on the back. Call me, night or day, if your brother checks in.” She hesitated to say this next part but figured he needed to hear it. “If Knox turns himself in, chances are he’ll walk away from this without any extra holes in his body. I can’t guarantee he’ll walk away at all if he doesn't. It would be an understatement to say his handlers sounded unhappy. Your brother’s betrayal cost them millions of dollars in man-hours and set them back years in their efforts to bring down that cartel. I think they’re itching to shoot first and ask questions later.”

Britt took a deep breath and nodded. “Right. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“No thanks necessary,” she assured him, and since she couldn’t think of anything more to say, she threw back the last of her coffee and turned to leave.

She’d made it to the door when Britt called out, “I guess when it comes to my brother, it’s true what they say, huh?”

She swung around with a questioning frown.

“Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny.”

She immediately recognized the quote from The Empire Strikes Back .

The first time they’d met, he’d said something to the effect of, “Aren’t you a little short for a fed?” To which she’d immediately responded, “I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.” Confusion had ensued, and she’d had to explain that growing up with three older brothers who were all Star Wars fans meant she was steeped in quotes from the movies. And thus had begun their Star Wars -themed flirtations.

She’d replayed each and every one of them at least a hundred times in the months since last she’d seen him. And she was beyond delighted to discover he remembered their banter, too.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she countered as her blood sang happily through her veins. “As long as he lives, hope lives.”

Her quote was a little more obscure. But he didn’t disappoint. “ The Last Jedi ?”

“Right on the money,” she told him and damnit! She liked him.

She hadn’t built castles in the sky when it came to him. He was as witty and as wonderful as she remembered.

Screw it , she thought. The timing is terrible, but it’s now or never.

Glancing at Dillan, who looked rather bored now that it seemed they wouldn’t be hunting a fugitive, she whispered, “Mind giving me a minute alone with Sergeant Rollins?”

A line appeared between her partner’s eyebrows, and she was reminded that he had just enough brain cells for basic motor function when it came to subtlety and innuendo.

“Why?” he asked.

The look on her face called him ten kinds of idiot. But her tone was sugary-sweet when she hissed, “Because I have something of a personal nature I’d like to discuss with him.”

“A personal nature?” Dillan’s frown deepened. “What could you possibly—” His eyebrows reached for his hair. “Oh. Right.” He glanced at Britt, who stood on the other side of the kitchen island, watching them curiously.

She waited until Dillan disappeared down the hall before clearing her throat and taking a step back toward the center of the room. When she realized she was wringing her hands, she shoved them deep inside her jacket pockets.

Her palms were sweaty.

So was her upper lip.

The comforting feel of the cat making figure eights around her ankles was the only thing keeping her Jell-O knees from giving out completely.

How do men do this?

“Are you seeing anyone, Sergeant?” she blurted, horrified by how much her voice shook.

Britt’s beard-covered chin jerked back. “What does me seeing someone have to do with my broth?—”

“This isn’t about Knox,” she interjected.

He blinked when he realized what she was asking. “No.” He shook his head, his voice suddenly quieter… gentler . “I’m not seeing anyone.”

She felt equal parts relieved— woot! He’s not seeing anyone!— and dismayed because now came the truly hard part. The part where she had to lay all her cards on the table and see if he was interested in playing a hand.

“I know this is bad timing. I mean, I came to inform you that your brother’s done the worst thing possible and is in the biggest trouble of his life. And I get it if you tell me to fuck off. But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-three years, it’s that I’ll never get what I want unless I ask for it. And if I don’t ask this now, I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to ask it again. So…would you like to maybe meet me for a drink sometime? After this thing with your brother is settled, of course. I know that’ll be weighing on your mind in the meantime.”

Whew! She’d done it. She’d asked him out.

She waited for his response with bated breath. Then, she waited some more. And then she waited some more , and while she waited, she replayed her question in her head, wondering if she’d worded it correctly.

Yup.

She’d definitely asked him out. She’d preceded the invitation with a lot of words—she tended to ramble when she got nervous. And she could have left out the word maybe when she’d asked if he wanted to meet her for a drink. But even with the maybe thrown in there, there was no way anyone could have misconstrued her meaning.

As the silence stretched on, she began to wonder if it were possible to die from mortification. And, as usually happened when she felt backed into a corner, the Southsider in her took over. “Yo, Rollins. In case you missed it, that’s the conversational baton I passed you.”

His usually expressionless face suddenly looked… pained ?

Oh, god. Okay. He’s going to try to let me down easy.

“I think you’re beautiful and brilliant and one of the most intriguing women I’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he said quietly.

Her heart burned like it had a hundred papercuts doused in rubbing alcohol. “Please.” She held up her hand. “Don’t damn me with faint praise.”

His brow wrinkled. “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m sorry if that’s?—”

She interrupted before he could finish. “And please don’t apologize. I should be the one apologizing. Given the situation, my asking you out is wildly inappropriate. I see that now. You think you could chalk this whole catastrophe up to me getting too little sleep last night and just forget I ever said anything?”

“Never.” He shook his head, humor flashing in his eyes. “The unmatched Agent Julia O’Toole asked me out. This is a Dear Diary entry.”

“Ugh.” She screwed her eyes shut. “I’m going to turn around now, walk out that door, and pretend this never happened.”

She started to do exactly that. But before she’d taken two steps, his voice stopped her. “My reason for not jumping on the opportunity to meet you for drinks has nothing to do with my brother, bad timing, or the fact that you came here on business.”

Her shoulders threatened to droop. She firmed them as she swung around so she could face him.

“I’m turning you down because I don’t believe in happily-ever-afters, and I get the impression you do,” he continued.

Well…she hadn’t been expecting that . Blinking in confusion, she asked, “You don’t believe in happily-ever-afters?”

He rounded the island to stand in front of her.

She wished he hadn’t. Up close, she could smell his aftershave. It was exotic and spicy, like black orchid and cinnamon. She wanted to pull him down so she could bury her face in his neck and inhale. Just drag his scent deep into her lungs.

“I believe in them for other folks,” he admitted. “Just not for myself.”

Right , she thought with a silent snort. I get it.

“You don’t believe in happily-ever-afters for yourself because you’re a lone wolf, and there are too many fish in the sea to catch one and be done?”

She didn’t care that she’d mixed her metaphors. It was becoming clear he was one of those types. The type that used phrases like alpha male and boys will be boys.

He blanched and ran a hand through his hair.

She wished he’d stop doing that. When he did, it made his cowlick stick up. And despite her having lost all interest in him as a potential bed partner, she still had to fight not to reach up and pat it down.

Would his hair feel soft or coarse? Cool or warm to the touch?

It doesn’t matter! she firmly told herself. He’s an asshole. And we avoid assholes like the smelly shitbags they are.

“God, no,” he finally said with a hard shake of his head. “I’m not a total douche nozzle.”

She crossed her arms and ankles—an unconsciously protective stance that meant Peanut lost the ability to jungle gym his way around her calves. He meowed his displeasure before wandering off.

Eyeing Britt consideringly, her expression told him that the jury was still out on the whole douche nozzle verdict.

“A happily-ever-after comes with risks I’m not willing to take,” he explained, and something moved across his face. Some emotion she couldn’t name.

“What sort of risks?” she couldn’t help asking.

Yes, she should shut up. Yes, she should turn and leave. It didn’t matter what his reasons were for rejecting her. He had. End of story.

Except…she hated question marks. Call it a byproduct of the job or call it natural curiosity.

“Let’s just say the big L is out of the question for me.”

She blinked. Then she shook her head. “So what? You don’t date. Like, ever ? Because it might turn into something more?”

She found that hard to believe. He was the sort of man who would need floaties to swim through all his female admirers.

“I date. I just don’t date anyone who wants more than I can give.”

“And what can you give?”

“Fun for now but not forever.”

She laughed. “So what made you jump to the conclusion when I asked you out for a drink that I was in the market for forever?”

“Aren’t you?” he countered.

“Answer the question, Sergeant Rollins.” She cocked her hip so she’d have somewhere to shove her fisted hand.

“I like it when you use your FBI voice on me.” The smile he gave her was fully weaponized. Like, seriously, it could lay waste to a woman’s heart. And ovaries.

“You won’t distract me,” she said with a sniff, even though she was so distracted. “When I asked you for a drink, what made you think I was looking for forever?”

“Family history,” he said simply.

It took great willpower not to call him a dirty name. “Are you being purposefully cryptic or has caffeine overload stolen my ability to think straight?”

He chuckled. And just like before, that sound went all through her. “I googled you, Julia.”

She gulped because her given name sounded so very right in his mouth. “You did ?”

“I told you I find you brilliant and beautiful and intriguing. Of course, I did a deep internet dive. Isn’t that what folks do when they meet someone they like?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I usually just plug their name into the FBI database and see what pops up.”

He chuckled again. And damnit ! The low, throaty sound turned her brain to mush and threatened to have it leaking out of her ears.

“Not all of us have access to the FBI database,” he countered.

“Color me curious. What did you find?”

“About you specifically?”

She nodded.

“Not much. You don’t have an Instagram account. You’re not out there tweeting away your day.” A line appeared between his eyebrows. “Or whatever it’s called now that the name isn’t Twitter. So, I was left with the various news articles that mention you. Oh, and I perused your online high school yearbook.” One corner of his mouth quirked. “You chose your senior quote to be, ‘Any pizza is a personal pizza if you try hard enough’?”

She grimaced. “I fancied myself a comedienne. If you aren’t tall, blond, and beautiful in high school, you have to find other ways to make the kids like you. Or else you’re likely to find your locker rigged with mousetraps or filled with those little round papers that come out of a hole punch.”

He canted his head. “But you’re two out of three. You’re blond and beautiful.”

She glanced at the recalcitrant strand of hair that’d fallen from her bun to curl over her shoulder. “I’m barely blond. And I’m passably pretty now that my braces are off and now that I know I should have two eyebrows instead of one.”

He grinned unabashedly. “I especially liked the photo of you in shop class wearing goggles and holding up the birdhouse. Did you mean for the roof to be lopsided or…” He let the sentence dangle.

“Look.” Now, both her hands were planted on her hips. “Not all of us are mechanically inclined. I should get points for taking shop class at all since it was filled with football players whose IQs matched their shoe sizes.”

This time he tossed his head back and laughed. The sound was so big and deep and full of fun that she found herself smiling in response.

When he sobered, she pinned him with a look. “So tell me, what was it about those news articles and my cringe-worthy high school yearbook that led you to believe I’m after the white dress, the diamond ring, and the house on the hill?”

“Nothing.”

She thought he was going to elaborate. When he didn’t, when he just stared down at her with humor and…was that heat …in his eyes, she sighed heavily. “And now we’re back to me thinking you’re either being purposefully obtuse or wondering if my caffeine consumption had finally addled my brains.”

“Your family likes to take a lot of pictures and make a lot of posts,” he explained. “So I know your mom and dad are happily married after forty-five years. And I know all three of your brothers put rings on their high school sweethearts' fingers and have the houses, the minivans, and the kids to show for it.”

“Damn Facebook!” She shook a fist in the air. “It was the end of privacy.”

Her mother and sisters-in-law loved to post the minutia of every family dinner and holiday celebration, which meant their lives—and Julia’s life by association—were blasted all over the internet.

“You come from the land of backyard barbecues and nuclear families,” he said with an easy shrug. “It stands to reason you dream of the same fate for yourself. Am I wrong?”

She didn’t lie. But she didn’t exactly give him the whole truth either. “I do dream of having all that. Someday. But you’re pretty cocky to assume I was thinking about any of that with you . Who says I wasn’t trying to jump your bones? A little slam, bam, thank you, man?”

“Miss Julia,” he said in the way only Southern boys could. “This thing between us.” He motioned back and forth between them. “Call it an affinity, call it chemistry, call it whatever you want. But the one thing you can’t call it is casual.”

So he did feel that thing between them. It wasn’t just her.

She didn’t know if she wanted to shoot a victorious fist in the air or break down and cry because he wouldn’t let them explore it.

“If we were to start something,” he continued, “it’d end in hurt. I don’t want that for either of us.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a cynic.”

“I prefer the term pragmatist .”

“Says every cynic ever.”

He simply shrugged, and disappointment replaced the butterflies that had fluttered in her stomach since she clapped eyes on him when he exited the front door.

“You know, my mom always says when someone tells you who they are, believe them.” She held out her hand and tried not to shiver when his rough palm met hers. “So, thanks for telling me exactly who you are. I hope you have a nice life.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I hope the same for you, Julia.”

God, why did it sound so good when he said her name? It was just her name. She’d heard it thousands of times out of hundreds of different mouths. But something about Britt’s accent…

A subtle rustling had her glancing over her shoulder. Peanut was back to sniffing the crack under the pantry door.

“I think he’s after a treat,” she said, latching onto the perfect excuse to vamoose herself from the scene. They’d said everything that needed to be said hadn’t they? Besides, the sooner she got to the car, the sooner she could get back to the office, and the sooner she could excuse herself to the restroom, where she could grab a few minutes of solitude to work through the disappointment that sat on her shoulders like a four-ton elephant. “I’ll grab one for him on my way out if that’s okay?”

She went to pull her hand from Britt’s grip, but he held on tight. Frowning slightly, she glanced first at their clasped fingers—his hand looked so large compared to hers—and then into his whirlpool eyes.

“What?” she asked uncertainly.

“A kiss before you go?” His voice had gone so low she struggled to hear it. But there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye.

Her silly ovaries started celebrating with party horns and confetti cannons. Lucky for her, her head was still screwed on straight. “Why? So we can torture ourselves?”

“No.” He tugged on her hand. She stumbled forward until her toes touched his. He was a head taller than her, so she had to crane back her neck to hold his gaze. “So we’ll at least have this. This one little thing before we say goodbye forever. Something is better than nothing, don’t you reckon?”

She should tell him no . She should jerk her hand from his. She should march right out of the building and never look back.

Instead, she nodded so quickly she thought she heard her brain clanging against the sides of her skull.