21 #2
“The barn was already on the property, and I had to have one. It’s in the bylaws.
Our Community Association is . . . somewhat intense.
” Drumming his fingers on the marble countertop, he chose to put a positive spin on things.
“But we have access to a communal clubhouse, tennis courts, and a basketball court. And there are weekly community barbecues in the summer.”
Eyeing him with amused skepticism, she put down her lipstick tube and raised one brow. “Have you ever gone to one of those
barbecues? Even when you were in town and available to attend neighborhood events?”
Socializing in crowds? Among strangers? Without Maria to smooth his path?
Ugh.
“No,” said Peter firmly.
Her lips twitched. “Another question: Do you have any actual animals in your barn?”
Peter Reedton, gentleman farmer. He tried to picture it. Imagined himself squatting beside a cow’s ass, her deadly hooves
mere inches from his vulnerable skull, tugging at her sensitive parts for unpasteurized milk still warm from her body.
He shuddered. “Of course not.”
“Well, what do you keep there instead, if not livestock?”
“My dignity.”
Maria laughed then, her unguarded, inimitable cackle that made the sun shine brighter. Which was quite a trick in Southern
California.
“I can’t wait to use your pool.” When she tilted her head, a tendril of hair tickled her shoulder. “Can your neighbors see
into that part of your yard?”
Oh, he knew where she was going with this, and he approved. Wholeloinedly.
“Nope,” he said, and considered the various wonderful possibilities.
“Then I guess it’s okay I didn’t pack my bikini.”
He’d give a lot to see that red bikini again, but after six years, she probably didn’t even have it anymore. And in that case...
“Naked is good.” After thinking a moment, he corrected himself. “No, naked is great . Better than great. Optimal .”
She snickered.
“I’d have loved a pool in our yard when I was growing up. At least for the two weeks each summer the weather was hot enough
to use it,” she added wryly. “If all your neighbors didn’t have pools of their own, I’m sure every nearby kid would be climbing
the fence and sneaking into yours.”
Kids. Yeah.
This wasn’t the world’s best moment to raise such a sensitive topic, but maybe it couldn’t hurt to feel her out on the subject
a little?
“A lot of people here do have children. In case that’s something that interests you.” He kept his voice carefully neutral.
“We have a community elementary school, a playground near the clubhouse, and lots of pint-size kids in designer clothing selling
lemonade at the ends of their driveways. Like, real lemonade. Squeezed from an actual yellow lemon from a tree.”
Her mouth opened, then closed, and her brows drew together.
Shit .
Unable to stand the silence, he spoke again. “Although most of ’em probably use electric juicers, now that I think about it.
And fancy so-called natural sweeteners instead of plain old sugar, mixed with water from artesian wells. Ones ceremonially
blessed by ghostly nuns at the ancient, abandoned abbeys where the wells are located.”
Ah, nervous rambling, the refuge of those ill equipped for serious conversations.
This was what he got for talking. Silence was so much easier.
She continued staring at him for the space of a breath or two. Then she finally spoke, testing out each word with uncharacteristic
caution.
“I thought... or maybe I hoped?” She hesitated. “Hoped is probably more accurate. Anyway, I kind of hoped you were, uh...
past the point of wanting kids?”
“Oh, thank fuck.” He exhaled in a rush, sagging with relief. “I don’t want kids either. I have zero desire to take on that
responsibility, especially given how hectic and unpredictable our schedules can be.”
So many television series and movies filmed outside Hollywood now. Establishing a stable home for a child of two working actors
would be extremely challenging at best, impossible at worst. As a former miserable kid, he wasn’t going to risk perpetuating
their ranks. No, thank you.
For Maria, he might have considered bending on the issue, but he wouldn’t have been thrilled about it. Shit, what a stroke
of good luck.
“Excellent. Happy to have the matter settled. No kids.” She beamed at him and turned back to the mirror over the dual vanity.
“In that case, this house has plenty of room, and we won’t need to move. Unless your extremely intense Community Association—”
“ Somewhat intense.”
“—wants to force us to become actual beet farmers.” With the side of her nail, she removed a speck of something from her upper
cheek. Probably mascara. “I’d oppose that.”
“I called the Community Association somewhat intense,” he emphasized once more, “and if you ever tell them I said otherwise, I’ll drop you in the middle of a murder of cows and walk away, no matter how much you beg me to save you.
I’ll make certain your funeral is nice, though.
Assuming the board members don’t kill me first.”
“As board members of community associations that are only somewhat intense are prone to do.” She looked down her nose at him, her tone lofty. “In English, incidentally, I believe that’s called a herd of cows. Murder of crows, herd of cows.”
“I said what I said.”
“Whatever.” She handed over her tube of lipstick, the final item she needed him to carry that night. “I’m ready to go, skitstovel . Stop primping.”
He shrugged on his suit jacket, slipped the lipstick inside a hidden pocket, and ran a brush over his beard one last time,
then took a good, long look at the woman in the bathroom doorway.
Shaking his head, he crossed his arms over his chest.
All his grooming efforts were pointless. It didn’t matter that his beard was soft and gleamed in the slanting sunlight from
the bathroom windows. It didn’t matter that he’d plucked his most stylish suit, charcoal gray and perfectly fitted, from the
walk-in closet they now shared. It certainly didn’t matter that he’d shined his shoes to a high gloss.
He could be wearing a fucking clown costume, and it still wouldn’t matter. No photographers were going to bother snapping
photos of him at Alex’s charity auction. Not with her nearby.
The deep blue of her dress turned her skin luminous, and the garment was almost as beautiful as she was, with lavishly embroidered sleeves, a square neck that dipped low, and a hem that flirted high on those luscious thighs.
The straps of her flat sandals wrapped lovingly, possessively around her ankles and calves.
With seemingly two flicks of her wrist, she’d gathered her hair into a casual bun, just messy enough to be modern, with waving tendrils framing her gorgeous face.
He wanted to kiss that lipstick off her. Rip that dress off her.
She could keep the sandals on.
“ Fy fan , Peter.” Her eyes swept over him in similar appraisal, from top to toe. “Forget the buffet. I could eat you for dinner instead.”
In case he’d missed the husky invitation in that comment, her eyes flicked to his dick, hopeful and hardening beneath his
suit pants. Also doomed to disappointment, because they needed to get going.
“Save that thought for approximately four hours from now, sweetheart,” he said.
Taking her hand, he led her through the house and to the door. But right before they went outside, she halted and tugged him
to a stop too.
Her eyes twinkled with malicious glee. “Just in case you thought I forgot about the Pippi reference from earlier...”
And there it was, albeit belatedly. A jar of pickled herring, shaken so close to his face he couldn’t actually focus on it
without crossing his eyes.
It shouldn’t be scientifically possible. Was materializing seafood from thin air a special power all Swedes shared but kept
secret from outsiders?
“Now we can go,” she announced, and swept out the door in front of him.
He watched the jiggle of her ass and let it soothe his concerns about the laws of physics.
A minute later, as he handed her up into the SUV, she suddenly snorted. “Oh, gods above, I just realized something.”
He grunted in response, because when she was sitting down, that dress— that dress .
Holy shit.
The short, wide hem would fit so easily over his head if he knelt at her feet in an abandoned hotel hallway, spread those
fucking amazing thighs, and licked until she gasped and shook and came on his tongue.
“You live in a gated community, Peter, where you can make the gates open at your will.” Waiting, evidently, for his attention
to leave her legs, she fell silent a long, long time until he met her eyes again. “You know what that makes you?”
He had no damn idea. “Wealthy?”
“God of the gates,” she told him, then screeched with laughter until he was laughing too, helplessly. “Oh, fy fan , it’s perfect .”
You are too , he thought, and wished for the millionth time he could banish the thread of fear woven amid all his joy. Heaven help me, you are too .