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When he didn’t look convinced, I relented, flipping open the folder on the entryway table and smoothing it flat against the oak.

The guide was scrawled in Bethany’s loopy handwriting, doodled hearts, and a cartoon ribcage in sunglasses staring up at us.

Beneath was a hand-drawn graph that detailed exactly what sexual positions would hurt.

He coughed.

Dylan leaned closer again, breath warm at my ear. “Read it.”

I began aloud, my voice wobbling with laughter.

“Nurse Bethany’s Cheeky Recovery Romp Graph: Frisky Dos and Don’ts for Dylan’s Ribs and Brain.

Hey, lovebirds! It’s your pal Nurse Bethany here to guide you through Dylan’s recovery with a wink and a giggle. This graph lays out what’s hot and what’s not for getting cozy, keeping those ribs happy and that brain calm while we watch for pesky seizures or bleeds.”

My eyes rounded and I paused to look at Dylan. “I don’t want to be the reason you have a seizure.”

He made a face. “I’d like to avoid a brain bleed.”

A nervous giggle escaped me, eliciting one from him as well. “Yeah, that too. The doctor’s notes said to keep you calm, but I thought that meant no trampolines.”

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure trampolines are off-limits.” He bent closer and growled into my ear, “But you—that hurts.”

It was nearly impossible to tear my gaze from his to return to Bethany’s chart.

“Week two: Eyes on/hands off. Blood pressure alert. No frisky business, folks. Dylan’s ribs are not yet solid and anything that raises his blood pressure is off-limits.

Think PG-13. Play cards. Write poetry about each other.

Soulful hand-holding is allowed. Hold off on spooning or doing anything that might strain Dylan’s chest muscles. ”

“Damn,” Dylan said with a twinkle in his eyes. “I haven’t written a poem since elementary school. Is it okay if mine rhymes?”

I swatted at his arm playfully, then quickly said, “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.”

He took my hand, brought it to his lips and kissed the palm of it before saying, “Jennifer, I’m not fragile. Don’t slug me in the chest, but other than that, I’m fine.”

I nodded.

After lacing his fingers with mine, he said, “Keep reading. I’m hoping our options for week three are better.”

I smiled and ducked my head to see if they were.

“Weeks three and four: Tiptoe into snuggling sass. With your neurologist’s okay, you’ll likely be told cautious canoodling is on the menu.

Keep it light. No lifting. No chest pressure.

Not every romp has to be a stomp. You can start getting creative as long as there are no headaches or chest pain.

” Attempting to keep a straight face, I continued. “Sounds like oral would be okay.”

His hand tightened on mine and he winked. “Oral is always okay. I’ve heard there are healing benefits to it.”

“I’m sure you have.” Nodding slowly, I chuckled again.

Looking down at the paper, Dylan read, “Weeks five and six: Crank up the heat, but don’t burn the place down.

Still no lifting, but positioning can get more creative and blood pressure should no longer be an issue—so, rev those engines all you’d like.

” He read on quietly, then laughed. “Week seven: No holds barred. Cleared for as freaky as you want to get.”

I coughed as images of the wild sex marathon we’d once engaged in returned, then I realized something. “I bet Nurse Bethany doesn’t normally write care instructions like this. She added spice because she knew Steven would read it.”

“And it worked. He looked flustered and that’s not like him.” His chuckle was low and rich, the kind that hit and lingered.

I searched his face. “Seven weeks. We didn’t wait that long the first time.”

His gaze warmed. “There’s no amount of time I wouldn’t wait for you, Jennifer. You’re a part of me—the best part.”

Tears welled. How had I ever doubted this man? I could have said something sweet back, but the moment weighed heavy, so I joked, “Since when are you patient?”

His thumb brushed my knuckles, slow and deliberate, each stroke igniting a heat that curled low in my belly.

His eyes drifted to my lips, darker now, more focused.

Like he was memorizing me all over again.

“If we do this right, I’ll have forever to feast on that sweet sex of yours.

A man can hold off when something that fucking incredible is on the line. ”

I swayed toward him. The guide slipped from my hand to the table.

My voice dropped, husky. “Keep talking like that, Mr. Amnesiac, and we’ll have to explain to Nurse Bethany why we didn’t follow her advice.

” My fingers grazed his jaw, skimming the stubble rough as sandpaper.

My pulse thundered. “She’d be so upset with us. ”

He leaned in, his lips a whisper from mine, his hand cupping my cheek, warm and steady. “It might be worth the risk,” he murmured, voice thick with want.

The air between us sizzled. My heart pounded wildly. I wanted to throw myself into his arms, but the words brain bleed were enough to keep me in check. I laughed shakily and pulled back enough to break the spell. “I’d rather have forever.”

He rested his forehead on mine and breathed in. “Me too. We’ll wait.” He gestured vaguely between us, the paper, and the charged air. “It’ll be torture, but only for a short time.”

And it was torture. Not only because I craved to be with him, but it felt like our happiness was racing against time.

Would he feel the same when his memories returned?

I thought back to the last time I’d seen him.

It had felt good to finally talk about our breakup, but I hadn’t felt this way about him. There’d been no spark.

What if . . . what if it disappeared again?

I didn’t know what would be worse—weeks of good sex that might end abruptly when his memories returned. Or weeks of wanting him, but holding off, only to lose him before ever sharing heaven with him again.

I swallowed, my fingers tightening in his. “We’ll manage,” I whispered. But it came out uncertain, barely more than a breath.

Dylan hugged me to his chest even though that certainly was against the rules. I laid my head gingerly on his shoulder. Against my ear, he growled, “Don’t cry when I kick your ass at cards.”

I closed my eyes and breathed his strength in, then murmured, “I’ll cry if I fucking want to.”

His chest rumbled with humor.

I was falling hard for him, all over again, this time without the safety net of anger shielding my heart. Selfishly, I wanted to tell him everything, clear the air, see if he really had forgiven me, and get it over with.

And I might have chosen that path—if the risk wasn’t a potential seizure.