Chapter 12

Peter pushed away his cake and stood. Hooking a thumb toward the backyard, he explained when all eyes alighted on him, “I have to bring our bags out. Da, we’ll do presents tomorrow?”

Ronan, who’d already returned to his model, nodded distractedly while Liam strummed an idle melody on his guitar. To Georgia’s mind, Peter fled the room as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels.

The front door opened and closed. Apparently he’d decided to take the long way around. Not knowing what else to do, Georgia looked toward the sink and reached for her and Peter’s dishes on the table.

“Don’t you dare even think it,” Brenna said, shooing her. “Go. See if you can do something with him. I gave up trying years ago.”

“Thank you.” She glanced to Ronan. “Sorry we ruined your birthday dinner by being late.”

Niall snorted. “Ma only ever orders enough pizza for us five. Pete never shows on time.”

“Oh,” Georgia said, a little stupidly, she knew, but knowing family secrets—secrets even Peter hadn’t been let in on—felt wrong, especially when she wasn’t really here as more than a paid employee.

With a guilty glance at Niall, she skirted around his step stool and out the back door without her coat. Fresh footprints in the snow showed her Peter had already come around the house. Huddled in on herself for warmth, she trudged across the backyard toward the boathouse as wet snowflakes pattered like raindrops against her skin.

Outside she could see the boathouse for what it was. Like a second home, it perched on the edge of the lake with a quiet elegance that reminded her more of Peter’s taste than that of anyone else in the family. Two stories high and vivid red, the building appeared to be a modernist statement on quaint old New England. The back sported no windows or doors, only an arbor that likely provided a shady barbeque spot in the warmer months.

A side door spilled light onto the snow, a beacon when she left the main house. Georgia approached the entrance and peeked through the glass panes at the top of the door. The water’s reflection danced off the ceiling in a wavy pattern that suggested the place was currently devoid of any waterborne vessel.

She raised her hand to knock, hesitated, and glanced back at the main house. Should she give Peter some time alone? He hadn’t exactly invited her to go with him, and he’d seemed to need some space from everyone when he’d left. She stood, shivering in indecision, staring across the yard, until Peter swung the door wide, making her jump.

“Planning to come in?”

She stepped inside and closed the door. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Interesting question.” He pivoted, his retreat visibly tactical.

He’d changed into navy pajama bottoms and wore nothing else. As he walked, the material clung to his muscled ass. Transfixed, she leaned back against the door.

“Keep looking at me like that, and we’ll never make it upstairs.”

Her gaze flew to his face. He stared at her over his shoulder, one hand on the stair rail. Mortified, she tried to come up with an excuse for ogling him and failed. A bashful grin lifted her lips.

“Sorry. You’re…” She shrugged and looked away, at a loss.

Water lapped against the boathouse pylons in a rhythmic tempo, and light rippled across the room, casting a magical glow. The pungent scent of cedar competed with the more actively organic odor of algae and damp air. Peter remained perched at the bottom of the stairway, regarding her until she had to look at him or go crazy with wanting to know his thoughts.

“Want to come up?” He inclined his head, indicating the space above. “It’s warmer.”

Feeling not a wee bit like a fly entering the spider’s web, Georgia nodded and moved around the hull-shaped hole in the floor to follow Peter’s ascent.

“Did you build this place?” she asked as they emerged into a great room of sorts.

Exposed rafters and a glass-fronted woodstove at the room’s center gave it the feeling of a luxurious cabin. One wall was made of glass and overlooked the lake’s inky surface. Leather sofas and a recliner surrounded a bearskin rug on one side, while a bed made of huge logs took a place of prominence on the opposite side of the central stairwell.

Georgia looked from left to right at the top of the stairs, while Peter crossed to a small kitchen and withdrew two bottles of water from the fridge.

He cracked the cap on one bottle and held it out. “Here. Make yourself at home.”

She crossed the room, and he met her partway. Above her head a white patch caught her attention. A snow-covered skylight, reinforced with steel, ran the length of the room, bisecting the roof into a stargazer’s heaven.

“That must be gorgeous in the summer.” Georgia took the water from Peter’s hand as she spoke.

Their fingers brushed, and her skin heated all over. The bottle tumbled from her hand and rolled across the floor. She chased after it, snatching it up before it disappeared under the bed. She straightened, intending to join Peter in the center of the room, and froze.

He was there. Directly behind her.

Peter closed the minute distance between them. She sobered, looking at the bed. Guessing his intent, she faced him slowly. Could she do this again? With this man? Let him in when the only guarantee she had was a broken heart?

His words to his paid lover echoed in her head as her eyes searched his.

Don’t make the mistake of falling for me… At the end—and it will end—I won’t be in love with you. And I will let you go.

Expression grim, he seemed to struggle against himself. Passion lit his eyes. His nostrils flared as he apparently tried, and failed, to bank the flames.

“I want you,” he said finally and cupped her nape.

Fingers threaded in her hair, he reeled her in, and she let him. As if she could’ve done anything else when her body needed all her spare energy to remain upright. Knees locked, breath coming in shallow gasps, she faced down her first kiss with Peter Wells with almost all the bravery of Jeanne d’Arc at the stake.

“Don’t hurt me,” she murmured just as his lips, firm and moist, brushed across hers.

He lifted his head, a deep frown drawing his brows together. His gaze searched hers before his attention dipped to her mouth.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he said and moved in for the kill.

PETER TILTED GEORGIA’S head just so and took charge of the kiss. Tender and deliberate, he darted his tongue along her seam before nipping at the plump softness of her lower lip. She moaned and melted into the embrace. All soft. All woman. He ran his free hand down her back to steady her against him, conscious all the while of the bed looming directly behind her.

Careful, his inner gentleman said. She’s not used to this.

All the better to seduce her with, his Big Bad Wolf replied.

A flash of Gigi in her red dress, her lush ass visible under the drape of her fur, assaulted his inner vision, momentarily unbalancing his equilibrium. When he would have lifted his head, however, Georgia twined her slender arms around his neck and pulled him down, deepening the kiss.

Berry-sweet brightness burst across his taste buds as he tamed her seeking tongue, pushing it back into her mouth with his own. He plundered her without mercy, showing her who had control here and who would maintain the upper hand. Nobody seduced him. Nobody.

A water bottle thudded to the floor and rolled. Delicate fingers burrowed in his hair. Georgia stood on tiptoe and pressed her breasts against his naked chest. He tightened his grip and captured her answering gasp as his trophy. Dipping his fingers to the crest of her ass, he trailed them with deceptive laziness along the peach-soft flesh below her waistband.

Georgia’s trembling turned to shaking. He caressed lower, exploring the nerve-rich crevice between. She mewled into his mouth and arched. So responsive it made him ache to throw her on the bed and get her off. Just to see how long it would take. Was it him she responded to, or was she more experienced than she’d let on last night?

He lifted his head to study her, and she whimpered. A pleading, desperate sound that blasted a hole in his control. Liquid heat surged up his shaft, a warning. When was the last time he’d been wound so tight? A decade, at least. Possibly longer.

All damned night, he’d fought with his instincts.

Don’t seduce her again, the gentleman said. You’ll only hurt her worse tomorrow.

She wants it, Big Bad reasoned.

For the moment, the wolf won out. He’d decided as he waited for her in the boathouse that he’d use this weekend to get her out of his system. Just because she tempted him more than most women didn’t mean she’d stick.

Removing his supporting hands, he gave Georgia a little push to her breastbone. She didn’t fall so much as collapse onto the mattress. Breasts practically begging for his touch, she braced on her elbows and regarded him with wide-eyed wariness. The wolf growled his approval.

One deft tug had her jeans unfastened. The next bared her down to her lacy thong. A darker patch of pink polka-dot material showcased what he’d done to her with a simple kiss. His grin was slow and feral as he dipped low and shoved Georgia’s thighs wide. She arched. He ran his nose along the musky plumpness at her apex. Tonguing her from bottom to top, he discovered the kernel of her clit through her panties, clamped on with his lips, and sucked hard. He drew her in and rolled the cotton-covered sweetness against his tongue.

Nails scraped his scalp, his shoulders, his neck. By the time he was finished, she’d be wrecked. A complete mess of tangled hair and languid limbs. He’d wring every drop of pleasure from her, leaving nothing behind but the husk of the woman she’d once been.

“Don’t hurt me,” she’d said. As if he was capable of anything else.

He paused, panting, and looked up the landscape of creamy skin to kiss-swollen lips and fluttering lids. With the scent of sex and Georgia’s rain-soft skin surrounding him, he made the mistake of thinking with his brain. If they did this, she’d just be another lay. Did he want that for her? For himself? Shock sprayed like buckshot, peppering his arousal and dimming it as effectively as a white dress and the “Wedding March.” He pushed off the mattress.

“I’ll take the couch.” He choked on the words and spun away.

Unable to look at Georgia, not wanting to absorb the bewildered hurt he imagined etched on her brow, he snatched the mohair afghan off the back of the sofa and a pillow from the recliner. Flinging both to the leather sofa, he switched off the lights in the living area and tried not to hear her slowing gasps.

She cleared her throat. Sat up. He rolled over, presenting her with his back. Listened as she padded around looking for things in the medicine cabinet. He knew she’d found the extra toothbrush he’d laid out for her when he heard the rhythmic brushing, then the sound of her rinsing.

A dull ache throbbed in his temples and his cock, its pulsing beat a reminder he had a heart. “Why Georgia” indeed. He grimaced at his brother’s choice of song and pulled the afghan tighter around his shoulders.

Eventually Georgia turned off the light in the sleeping area. He listened as she punched the pillows. Rolled and punched again. Laid down in a huff, trying to get comfortable. Peter moved to his back, folding an arm under his head. The white strip of skylight above made him wish for summer and the stars.

What the hell had just happened? One moment he had a willing bed partner—someone to slake his carnal thirst—and the next he’d banished himself to a too-small sofa. He sat to face the room, his skin making a sticking sound against the leather. Peering through the dark, he barely made out Georgia’s slight form under the mountain of white quilt. Only a darker patch where her hair fanned across the pillow gave any indication she occupied the bed.

A bed big enough for two…

Telling Wolf Man to shut up, he lay down again. His head banged the sofa arm with enough force to make his teeth clack together. He winced and rubbed at the tender spot.

When was the last time he’d kissed a woman? He thought back through six or seven now nameless, faceless women and came up empty. What had made him kiss Georgia? He pondered the question until his head ached. She’d been so good with his father. When she’d clasped both his hands in hers and looked warmly into his eyes, something had broken free in Peter. He had understood then, her friendship with Gigi Montrose notwithstanding, that Georgia was a good person. Someone he could trust.

His family had accepted her with so little question, though they had to wonder how he’d gotten so close to her in such a short period after the gossip column’s revelations. Yet something about her sweetness and open, artless manner made them believe. She was just Georgia being Georgia, and they adored her for it.

Dinner had made him ache for something he hadn’t wanted in a long, long time. His family. Usually he made sure he arrived late enough and left early enough that they never ate together. Given the animosity between him and Niall, and his strained relationship with his father, it seemed easier all the way around. Besides, what did he have in common with his brothers and parents? What had he ever had in common with them since his father’s accident?

Peter swallowed hard, fragmenting the ache building in his chest. Giving up on sleep altogether, he sat and rummaged in the dark for his laptop bag. With the screen’s soft glow lighting the room, he propped his back against the arm and put his feet on the cushions as he opened his e-mail. More than twelve hundred yellow envelope icons lined up like infantry in his in-box. He shot each of them with his mouse pointer, one by one, until only five remained and the soft glow of dawn permeated the snow-caked skylights.

Georgia shifted and sighed, burrowing deeper under the covers. Peter lifted his gaze to her, a plan forming. What if they just had fun today? He’d show her his old haunts, get to know her better before he seduced her. Just because he had a conscience didn’t mean he didn’t have a cock too. Being friendly before the fucking didn’t have to mean a lifelong commitment. Did it? And who said at the end of the day the friendly intimacy wouldn’t take the edge off his arousal? If familiarity bred contempt, then he ought to be good and sick of her and she of him by the time they returned to New York.

He thought of Hank’s Coffee Cup, a little shack overlooking the Sound, and rose from the sofa. As if pulled in by her personal gravity, Peter approached Georgia and stared down at her sleeping face. Auburn hair a wild tangle against the white pillowcase, she lay on her back, pink fingertips clutching the covers. Soft snores rose from her lightly parted lips. He bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing. Without conscious thought, he bent to brush a kiss against her mouth.

Georgia snorted and sat up so quickly she almost brained him. Laughter shot from Peter’s stomach, a full-blown guffaw. He gasped against the giddy mirth as Georgia pushed her hair from her eyes and glared up at him accusingly.

“You were snoring,” he said when he could spare enough oxygen to speak.

“Was not.” The clipped roundness of her speech took him aback.

“You sound like…” He shook his head. Obviously the two women spent a lot of time together, both in the States and abroad, if the family photo in Gigi’s apartment was to be believed.

Georgia shot out of bed, wearing her shirt and jeans from last night. She hadn’t worn the nightgown, but he decided not to remark on it. He could hardly blame her for not wanting to make herself more vulnerable around him.

“We’re going out for breakfast,” he said, peeling off his pajama bottoms as he crossed to his overnight bag.

A sharp inhale from Georgia made his lips quirk upward once more, but he didn’t turn around. Let her ogle. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen, or grabbed, before.

“I’d tell you to put some clothes on,” he continued as he stepped into his underwear and adjusted his package, “but you never got undressed.” He pulled his clean jeans from the bag. “You probably want to brush your hair though.”

“I know all about personal hygiene, Peter.” Arms folded protectively, Georgia eyed him with sleep-tinged rancor as he buttoned his pants. “Unlike you, I’ve been washing my own backside my entire adult life.”

Oh, so it was that way, was it?

Knowing it would only bait her, he gave her a faux arch look. “Don’t make me wait. I’m hungry.”

The grin spread across his face once more when she flounced away, her hair whirling around her shoulders with the motion. He kept smiling as she yanked the bathroom door closed. He’d give her fifteen minutes. If she wasn’t out by then, he was going in after her.

Turned out he didn’t need to wait that long. They were zipping down the road within twelve. He downshifted as they went into a sharp curve and shot out onto the Y of the road into town.

“I didn’t think women could get ready as quickly as you,” he teased. “Did you decide to go European today?”

Georgia rolled her eyes and shifted her shoulders away, so she stared out the passenger window. “Ever hear of waxing, lover boy?”

Thoughts of other places she might’ve waxed besides her legs jerked him back to the moment last night when he’d nuzzled the heat of her sex. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been a hair in sight or any telltale prickling against his lips. Either then or when he’d fucked her. He gripped the wheel harder and winced at the awkward angle of his awakening cock against the seam of his jeans.

He lifted his hips from the seat and adjusted, attempting to gain some room. “There’s a seat heater, if you’re cold.”

Georgia didn’t look at him.

“My parents seemed to like you,” he tried.

She made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat.

“Thanks for, you know, being here. Convincing them…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “It’s been awhile, and you made it easier. So. Yeah. Just…thanks.”

“Why didn’t you have sex with me last night?” Her voice was laced with sleep’s throaty warmth.

“Well, that was direct.” And it was, though he couldn’t fault her for it. Part of him had been wondering the same thing all night long. He shrugged. “Call it an attack of conscience.”

She dropped her hands to her thighs and faced him more fully. Though his skin crawled with the reflexive need to look at her, he kept his eyes on the road and had to trust his peripheral vision to tell him what he needed to know.

“You didn’t sleep with me because you didn’t think I could handle you?”

He scowled. When had he said any such thing? Though, come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely certain she could’ve. Handled him, that was. “You’re the one who asked me not to hurt you.”

She faced away from him and recrossed her arms. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Didn’t mean it what way? Physically? Or mentally? At the time he’d thought she meant mentally, because it wasn’t like he’d come on hard and fast. He’d even kissed her, for chrissakes. So…had she meant mentally? He glanced at her, wishing he could see her expression better. “Then what way did you mean it?”

“I can take anything you can dish out, Peter Wells.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “And I don’t have to wear six-inch heels and sequins to prove it.”

Frowning, he steered them into a tight parking space near the wharfside restaurant. She was actually upset because he hadn’t treated her like his flavor of the week? After she’d been so pissed when he’d walked out on her at the gallery? Now he’d offended her by not following through with his come-on? Women did not, in his book, make any sense what-so-fucking-ever. Feeling as if he were waging a battle with one foot on quicksand and the other on a rocky boat, he released his seat belt with a jerk and shoved his door open.

On the sidewalk, he paused to gather his wits. The tang of sea air widened his nostrils, inviting him to breathe deep. He closed his eyes. Metal clinked against masts, the buoy bells a far-off toll, wrapping him in nostalgia’s warm embrace. He pictured the schooner on his fridge, felt her rocking beneath his feet, and longing tugged his middle tight.

Fog blanketed the Sound, hiding all but the closest whitecaps from his view. There’d be no real point to grabbing a window seat today, but he would anyway. Georgia’s car door slammed behind him. He held open the door to Hank’s little gray shack and stepped back to let her enter before him.

She paused, looking from the restaurant’s faded sign to Peter’s face and back.

“What?” he asked, though he’d read her thoughts in her expression.

She shrugged. “It’s just not the kind of place you usually frequent.”

Wondering if he’d misjudged her—if perhaps money meant more to her than she’d let on—he let the door creak closed. “Is there a problem with this place?”

He’d known the Browns his whole life. Mrs. Brown had been his second-grade teacher, and Mr. Brown had served him a slice of apple pie every day after Peter brought him his share of the lobster catch. Even when the catch stopped coming, the pie hadn’t.

Georgia tugged her lower lip between her teeth and worried it as she shook her head. Releasing her lip, she said, “No. I just don’t understand you sometimes.”

“Welcome to my world.” Peter grunted and pulled the door open once more. “Sometimes it’s like you’re two different people.”

She stopped short, forcing him to walk into her. His momentum pitched her forward, and only his quick grip on her elbow kept her from crashing headlong into the nearest table. Good thing too, because Arnie Harkness’s wife hated it when he let other women sit in his lap.

“Hey, Arnie.” Peter pulled Georgia with him as he walked past the gaping bait-shop owner.

Arnie nodded as the conversation in the restaurant lulled. The man had never been able to look at Peter’s face since the day of his father’s accident. In fact, a lot of people in town hadn’t. It was one of the reasons he’d gone away to school. Just to get away from the stares and speculation. All the whispering gossip that crawled like spider legs over his skin whenever he turned his back. As if someone pressed Play on the conversational sound track, the lull turned into a quick buzz before winding down to a normal speed once more.

Peter pulled out a pleather-padded metal chair for Georgia and took her coat. He hung it on the back of her seat and took the one opposite. The three-foot-by-three-foot square bistro table rocked on an unstable central pedestal as he sat. Outside, fog rolled by, parted only by the occasional whitecap and a diving gull. Through the mist the darker hulk of a few small fishing boats bobbed like ghosts on the water, reminding him of the pieces of his past he’d rather forget.

Maybe coming here hadn’t been such a good idea…

A waitress he didn’t recognize came over with a coffeepot in each hand. Peter flipped his cup right-side up, and she filled it with the high-octane brew.

“Know what you want?” she asked.

“Blueberry pancakes, bacon, eggs scrambled.” He ordered on automatic before both he and the waitress turned to Georgia.

Georgia blinked at him. “Come here much?”

He shrugged, secretly pleased he’d surprised her. “Since I was a kid, but not recently.”

“Um.” Georgia scanned the walls, trying to peer at the menu board from a distance while the waitress shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

“Order anything you want,” Peter said, trying to make things easier on them all. “As long as it’s breakfast, it’s probably on the menu.”

She shifted, and the table rocked. Peter’s coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup, and he grabbed napkins from the dispenser, pressing them at the river before it threatened to crest the table’s edge.

“Sorry… Okay.” She chewed at her lips. “May I have tea and a soft-boiled egg with whole wheat toast?”

“You don’t want coffee?” The waitress lifted the glass carafe a little higher, making the hard sell.

“Er…” Georgia fingered her cup and slowly flipped it over. “I don’t want to make trouble for you. You can give me coffee if it’s easier.”

The waitress tilted the pot. Coffee streamed into the cup, sealing the deal. Georgia eyed the murky liquid with a barely concealed lift of her lip.

“You usually have coffee with me in the mornings.” Peter peeled open a plastic half-and-half container and dumped it into his coffee. “I thought you liked it.”

“I’m a coffee snob,” she muttered darkly. “Tea is harder to screw up because I have control over it.”

The fishermen who came in every day to have their thermoses filled before going out would’ve raised a hue and cry if they’d heard her words. Peter lifted both brows and cradled his cup in his hands. Bringing the coffee to his nose, he sniffed. The nut-rich aroma tickled his palate even before he took a sip and rolled it over his tongue. He closed his eyes and sank into his chair to savor a larger mouthful. He’d never had better coffee. Even in New York.

His blissed-out expression must’ve convinced Georgia to try the stuff because when he focused on her again, she’d tentatively lifted the cup. The delicate flare of her nostrils emphasized the freckles along the bridge of her nose. A ridiculous urge to count and kiss each speck made him look away. When he looked back, the wonderment in her expression said it all.

“Oh my dear God.” She looked at the cup in her hands as if it contained pure gold before slowly lifting her eyes to his. “This stuff’s incredible.”

“Still want a tea bag and some hot water?” He tried not to smirk and failed. Miserably.

“No.” She gripped the cup and shook her head. “No way.”

That’s what he’d thought. The bell over the door rang brightly as a few customers entered and several left. Peter glanced their way on reflex and saw a man in a grease-splattered apron making his way to their table with three plates in his oversize hands. Warmth flooded his stomach, and he stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape against the worn linoleum.

“You rascal.” Hank Brown plunked the plates on the table and turned to Peter. “You should’ve told me you were here.”

The bear hug he saw coming, but not the burning tears that threatened to overwhelm his ducts. Patting Hank extra hard on the back, Peter ducked his head so the overly interested patrons wouldn’t see his red face. They separated, and Peter coughed, making a joke out of his inability to breathe.

“I didn’t know I’d be here. I wanted to”—he turned to Georgia, anxious to divert Hank’s attention—“show Georgia around. Give her a taste of where I grew up.”

Georgia’s eyes widened, but if she was surprised by his admission, she gave no other sign.

“Georgia Whitcomb, I’d like you to meet Hank Brown. Hank, Georgia.”

One elegant hand extended, Georgia stood to greet the man who’d been like a second father to him. Hank’s expression narrowed as he took her measure; then a grin spread across his face. Two gold teeth flashed, showing he was truly entranced.

“Well, it’s about time Peter brought a lady home. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you. The pleasure is all mine.” Georgia smiled and glanced to Peter, her lightly furrowed brow clearly asking you mean to tell me you’ve never brought a girlfriend here?

Avoiding the question in her gaze as well as Hank’s scrutiny, Peter instead lifted a forkful of the apple pie the man had placed on the table along with their breakfast. Tart fruit and the earthy sharpness of cheddar cheese bathed his taste buds, immersing his brain in memories and sensations long forgotten.

Wet and crisp, a Granny Smith apple turned in his fingers as he scraped the peeler across its surface, attempting to reveal the white flesh underneath in one, unbroken strip. The sound of oven doors banging and metal against metal as Mrs. Brown withdrew another batch of homemade treats, making sure he sampled every one. Her taste tester, she’d called him. In retrospect he knew she’d fed him because his parents couldn’t. Still, the knowledge didn’t make the memories any less sweet.

“Where’s the missus?” Peter looked around expectantly.

“She’s in Maine with the new grandbabies. Dory had twin boys in October.”

Peter laughed, more than startled to have missed so much. “Dory’s married?”

A brief hurt ghosted Hank’s expression. “A year ago June. We’re sorry you couldn’t make it, but we know how busy you are.”

“Hell, Hank.” Peter laid down his fork and grabbed the back of the chair. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think my assistant told me.”

Feeling like the slickest eel to ever get caught in a net, he wrung the metal bar harder and shook his head. He had no good excuse for not keeping up with Hank. No real reason other than a misguided sense of self-importance for not giving the man a way to get in touch with him personally.

“We understand.” Hank grasped Peter’s arm, then yanked a thumb toward the kitchen. “But my customers are waiting. Come by and see us at the house next time you’re in town?”

“I will, Hank. You can count on it,” Peter said, grabbing the man into another hug.

He watched as Hank walked away, a limp to his gait Peter hadn’t noticed previously. On his feet all day for years, the man had to be in his late sixties or early seventies at least. He should be off enjoying his grandkids, not slaving away in a kitchen without so much as a vacation to show for his troubles. Stunned, Peter wondered at himself. How in God’s name could he have taken such good care of his family and never, ever once considered the people who’d been so important to his happiness and well-being outside his home?

Sitting heavily, he forked up another bite of pie and regarded Georgia as she spread the egg around on her toast and lifted the jumbled mass. He’d never seen such impeccable table manners. Where he’d have made a mess of his shirt and likely his jeans as well, she never let a drop of yolk or a crumb of bread fall to the table or her clothes.

“You had an entire New England breakfast menu at your disposal, and you ordered a soft-boiled egg?” For some reason, the odd question left his mouth rather than the thirty other things vying for his brain’s attention.

She nibbled at her toast and looked up at him through her lashes with a wry smile. “I’ll only regret it if you tell me the pancakes are as good as the coffee.”

“Try the pie.” He held out a bite on the end of his fork, the intimacy of the gesture striking him only after he’d made the offer.

Georgia leaned forward, her lush lips open just far enough he was able to slip the pie past them and onto her waiting tongue. Chewing, she closed her eyes and sighed. Not until she swallowed did she open them and smile. A dimple popped to life in one cheek, and his heart lurched dangerously.

“Well,” she said, “I can sincerely say I regret ordering the egg instead of the pie.”

Without looking away, Peter raised one hand to summon their waitress. When she approached, he said, “Another piece of pie please, for the lady.”

Georgia’s startled blink made him cock his head when the waitress walked away. “What’s wrong? Don’t enjoy being called a lady?”

Placing her elbow on the table and her chin on her palm, she glanced toward the window and back to him. Her mouth twitched before widening into a sly smile. “I do find being a lady quite limiting.”

The question don’t you think? hung in the air, implicit and heavy. She wanted him, even after last night’s debacle. Blood thrummed to southern climes, and Peter shifted in his seat. He mirrored her posture and grinned.

Her pupils dilated, darkening her eyes to a stormy gray that matched the morning fog. He widened his smile to resemble something wicked and decadent, telling her with his eyes exactly what he’d like to do to her body and her mind. She sucked in a telltale breath. Unwilling to give in to temptation just yet, but fully planning to invite the devil to come out to play, he sat back.

“So,” he said, bringing another bite of his pie to his mouth. “Tell me about your parents.”