Honorable Rancher. Barbara Daille White
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as if to offset the tone. “I can stop by and give her a hand.”
Oh, no. She had to nip that bad idea before it could blossom into another problem. “Thanks, but she started going for tutoring. With Nate. I think they’re catching on.”
“Good.” But he sounded disappointed.
Refusing to look at his face, she stared down at her tea. She couldn’t risk having him come around here, getting close to the kids again. Sending her emotions into overdrive every time she saw him.
“Well.” He gestured to the coffee mug. “What happened to my cookies?”
She looked up at him in stunned surprise. That was no casual question, was it? That was a direct quote of his own words, something he’d once said to her time and time again, beginning with the first week of her eighth-grade cooking class.
He sipped from the mug.
His averted gaze gave him away, proving he’d asked that last question deliberately. He’d meant to remind her.
Hadn’t he?
Yet, truthfully, everything he said and did, everything he was, only made her recall their long history.
Everything she thought and felt only made things worse.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m all out of cookies.”
“That’s no way to say thanks for a ride home, is it?”
“If I’m remembering correctly—” she paused, cleared her throat “—I offered coffee, not dessert.”
“A man can dream, can’t he?” Now, over the rim of his mug, his eyes met hers.
Her heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t be flirting with her. Not Ben. He couldn’t want more.
Even though she did.
“Sure,” she said finally. “Dream on.” She looked down at her mug and blew lightly on the inch of lukewarm tea that remained, pretending to cool it. Needing to cool herself down. Needing to get him out of here—before she gave in to her own imaginings and made a fool of herself. Her cheeks burning, she added, “Speaking of dreams, I...I guess it’s time for me to turn in. And for you to go. Before it gets too late.”
“It already is.”
She stared at him.
He shrugged. “It’s nearly one o’clock, and I’m usually up by four. It doesn’t seem worth it even to go to sleep, does it?”
“Not for you, maybe. But I intend to get a few hours in before I pick up the kids.”
He nodded. “I’d better go, then.”
Relief flowed through her. Two minutes more, and she’d be safe. She set her mug on the coffee table and rose from the couch. She had turned away, eager to lead him to the door, when he rested his hand on her arm. She froze.
“Before I go,” he murmured, “you might need some help.”
“I don’t think so. I can manage a couple of mugs.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He tapped her shoulder lightly. “Did you plan on sleeping in this dress?”
“No,” she said, hating the fact that her voice sounded so breathless. That she felt so breathless. She must have imagined his fingertip just grazing her skin. “I thought Lissa would be here.”
“She’s not.”
“I know.”
She swallowed hard. Why had she ever wanted to make a dress she couldn’t get out of herself? Why did she not regret the decision now? She could have saved herself some heartache.
She turned to him, and their eyes met. Unable to read his—unwilling to let him see what she knew he’d find in hers—she spun away again. “Well, you can unbutton the top two buttons. That ought to get me started.”
Behind her, he laughed softly. He touched the low-cut edge of the back of her gown. Her breath caught. As he undid the top button, his knuckles brushed the newly exposed skin. She clutched her lace overskirt with both hands and hoped he had touched her deliberately.
He undid the second button, his fingers following the same path along her spine. Warmth prickled her skin.
When he reached for the next button and the next, she closed her eyes, wishing he’d meant to set off the heat building inside her.
After he’d undone the back of her gown, she turned, already planning the quick farewell that would send him on his way. With one look at him, her words disappeared before they reached her lips. Now she could read his eyes clearly. Could read naked longing in his face.
A longing she recognized too well.
In those endless months when she’d known in her heart her marriage to Paul was over, she had begun to yearn again for all the things she had always wanted in her life. All the things she had hoped Paul would be but never had been.
A solid, steady, dependable partner.
A husband she could truly love.
A daddy who would willingly raise her children.
A man...
A man just like Ben.
“Think I’ve gone far enough?” His voice rumbled through her. No sign of laughter now. His chest rose and fell with his deep breath. He looked into her eyes, then let his gaze drift down to her mouth.
She had spent the entire evening wanting him to kiss her—and she couldn’t wait for him to kiss her now.
Slowly he reached up and rested his warm hand flat against the back of her neck. She tilted her chin up, let him cradle her head in his palm, allowed her eyelids to drift closed.
His breath fanned her cheek.
The brush of his lips against hers came with the lightest of pressure. Not tentative, but restrained, as if he touched her in awe and disbelief. That sense of reverence made her eyes sting. Made her heart swell.
He cupped her face, his fingers curving beneath her jaw, fingertips settling against her neck. He couldn’t miss her rapid pulse.
His head close to hers, he murmured, “You know, I’ve had a crush on you since kindergarten.”
“No.”
“Yes. Although I admit,” he added, his voice hoarse, “I didn’t think about this until a few years later.” He slid his hand from her neck and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
When she opened her eyes, she found his face mere inches away. “You’re only looking for cookies,” she teased.
“Oh, no. Not when I’ve just had something much better.” His mouth met hers again. “You taste like wedding cake.”
She smiled. “You taste like champagne.”
“Only the best for you, darlin’. Always.”
Always. The way he’d been there for her.
Yet through all the years she had known him, she’d never imagined they would ever kiss. During the recent months when she’d begun to dream about him, she’d never dared to let those dreams bring her this far.
She had to clear her throat before she could speak again. Still, her voice cracked. “Are you trying to sweet-talk me, cowboy?”
“Sweet? No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “I’m thinking more like hot.” He slid his hand into the unbuttoned back of her gown, pressing his fingers wide and firm against her. The soft material slipped from her shoulders.
Not breaking eye contact with her, he trailed both hands down her arms. Like the water bubbling in the country club’s fountain, the gown fell in a froth of pink satin and lace.
When