The F-Word

She tilts her face up to mine and we kiss. It’s a long kiss, and wonderfully tender. In fact, everything about the last hour has been tender. The way I hold her. The way I kiss her. The way she smiles at me. Touches me. Have I ever shared so many tender moments with a woman before? Have I ever shared moments I’d describe as tender at all?

I don’t think so, and the knowledge rocks me.

It also scares the crap out of me, and a little voice in my head starts telling me it’s probably time to get out of this bed, out of this room, and join the real world.

“So,” I say briskly, “what were the If it rains plans for this morning? Knowing your cousin, I’m sure there were some.”

“Well, people were on their own for breakfast.”

I nod. “Find the local McD’s and chow down.”

Bailey laughs. “Or something.”

That’s what we did. The or something part. It’s why we should get out of here now. I start to suggest that. Instead, I hear myself ask about lunch.

“Rain alternative,” she says. “Meet at the clubhouse. Have lunch in the dining room.”

“Excellent idea. Lunch at the clubhouse.”

Bailey turns in my arms. She drops the schedule and puts her arms around my neck. “Actually, it really is an excellent idea. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

I am too, but with Bailey looking up at me, her eyes glittering, her lips curved in a soft smile, the plan to get out and mingle loses appeal.

“Or,” I say, “we could stay right where we are. Order in.”

“The inn doesn’t have a kitchen.”

I tip her face up. “We passed a famous Italian restaurant on our way here yesterday.”

She wrinkles her brow. “A famous Italian restaurant? Are you sure?”

“Am I sure, the woman asks. Of course I’m sure. It was a little place, right on Main Street. Dom-Een-Oh’s.”

“DomEen…?” Bailey laughs. “Domino’s.”

I grin as I lean my forehead against hers. “Garlic? Black olives? Extra cheese?”

“And broccoli.”

Jesus. Broccoli? I smile and manage to repress a shudder. “Oui, mademoiselle. I was going to ask for snails, but broh-coh-lee is better.”

“I thought this was an Italian restaurant, monsieur.”

I grin. “Italian, French, what’s the difference?”

“You’re right. But no snails. I’ve always preferred frog’s legs on my pizza,” she says. Then she rolls her eyes, jabs her finger at her open mouth and makes the most impressive gagging sounds I’ve heard since sixth grade.

In the end, she takes pity on me, maybe because she’s sitting in my lap when I phone in our order and she sees the look on my face as I start to say broccoli.

“Forget the broccoli,” she whispers, and I take time out of placing the order to drop a quick kiss on her lips.

The pizza arrives. We open the champagne we never got to last night, we eat in bed, and it’s more of a feast than good old Violet and the best chef in Paris could ever have concocted.

16

The rain stops in mid-afternoon.

We shower. And, yes, we find a way to put that teak bench in the shower stall to excellent use. Then I put on jeans, a pale blue shirt with a button-down collar and the sleeves rolled up, and my roper boots. Bailey slips into a pair of jeans that make the most of her delectable hips and ass, tops the jeans with a floaty silver thing, and puts on another pair of mules. These are silver. Or maybe gray. Whatever you call them, they’re the perfect finishing touch.