Chapter 20
TWENTY
You could tell the day wanted to be perfect from the way the sun came in like a friendly stray cat—pushing through the curtains, laying itself across the foot of her bed, warm and insistent.
The window was cracked for the breeze, and the willow by the river made a soft shhhh sound that felt like summer telling secrets to the water.
April lay there for a minute just letting herself grin at the ceiling. They’d spent the first night at Shane’s place, and last night back at her house. She honestly didn’t know which she liked better—though there was that shower at his place—or if it even mattered.
She had this now. She had Shane. Not maybe, not don’t-jinx-it. She had Shane in the bone-deep, coffee-scented, this-is-my-life way that made her want to hum while she brushed her teeth.
Down the hall, Pete’s nails clicked softly on the hardwood. A second later he appeared in the bedroom doorway, head cocked, tail wagging, like a gentleman butler asking if the lady was awake yet. He wore his expectant face—the one that translated to: We said hike today; your words, not mine.
“Good morning, Pete.” She flopped a hand in invitation, and he padded over, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress to accept his ritual forehead kiss. “Tell your dad I’m—”
“Already on it,” Shane’s voice came from beyond the door, easy and warm. A pan clinked, the coffee maker hissed. “Sourdough French toast and bacon. Not burned.”
“You say that like you’re surprised, but I know what a good cook you are.
” She rolled onto her side, smiling into the pillow because she couldn’t stop.
Kevin was still at camp, which meant no one was waiting for breakfast or a ride or help with algebra.
She’d fallen asleep with Shane’s hand splayed over her stomach, waking now and then just to press her mouth to his shoulder because she could.
Pete’s ears pricked toward the bedroom door. He gave April one last patient look—I gotta go back on breakfast duty—and left to supervise.
April stretched like a cat and slid out of bed.
Shane’s t-shirt hit mid-thigh. She stopped by the mirror, then laughed at herself.
This was how teenage girls looked at themselves after kissing a boy behind the bleachers.
Except she was a grown, full-bodied woman who owned a business, had a kid, and was building a future on purpose this time. Still, the giddiness felt earned.
“Don’t come out yet,” Shane called.
Her eyebrows went up. “Bossy much?”
“Don’t come out yet,” he repeated, laughing, “please.”
She laughed. She went into the bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth, finger-combed her curly, tangled hair, and swiped on cherry-flavored chapstick because kisses. She stuck her head out the door.
“Is it safe yet?” she asked.
“Okay,” he called. “Come look.”
She padded down the hallway in bare feet, rounded the corner, and stopped.
He’d set the table with his ridiculous attention to detail—folded tea towels as napkins, the little vase she never remembered to use now filled with wildflowers he must’ve picked by the river, syrup warmed in her one good pitcher because cold syrup was a crime against pancakes.
And at the center the French toast, golden and obscene, covered in powdered sugar like new snow.
“Is this a seduction?” she asked, amused and feeling a little melty at the edges.
“That depends.” He came around the table with a plate and a grin that landed low in her belly. “Is it working?”
She waited until he set the plate down, then hooked two fingers in his belt loops and tugged him until his hips almost met hers. He smelled like coffee and clean cotton and a hint of sawdust from the shelves he’d hung for her last night.
“You had me at warm syrup,” she whispered, then kissed him just to savor the way he always kissed back—full, patient, like there was never a rush with her.
He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek the way she loved it, then tipped his forehead to hers. “Eat first. Then shower. Then hike with Petey. Then I take care of that loose board on your porch. Then you can decide whether the rest of the seduction succeeds.”
“Or,” she said as she dipped her finger into the syrup. She stuck it into her mouth and sucked, savoring the way Shane’s eyes went hazy with lust. She pulled it out with a light pop. “We could… reorder the itinerary.”
He chuckled. “You trying to kill my productivity?”
“Your productivity is very productive.” She dipped her finger again, then swiped the sticky syrup across his bottom lip. She licked it off, and his hands tightened reflexively on her hips. “Also, Pete told me he’s fine with a late start.”
Pete, in obvious betrayal, thumped his tail and whined.
“Okay,” Shane said. “But we’re eating first. Shame to let all this food get cold.”
April rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”
The French toast was ridiculous. The conversation was light and silly—Kevin’s plans for Benny once he got back, a hike they wanted to do, whether Benny should be allowed on the couch.
“Alex said he’s already been on the couch,” Shane admitted.
“I knew it.”
He reached for her hand between bites like he always did, thumb riding across her knuckles.
And when the plates were pushed back and the syrup pitcher licked clean, when Pete had been released from his sentinel duties with a promise of a hike later, April took hold of Shane’s T-shirt and tugged.
“Okay,” she said, smiling up at him with the pure, fizzy joy of saying exactly what she wanted. “Now I vote rearranging the itinerary.”
He set his hands at her waist. “Yes, ma’am.”
He kissed her lazily at first, like the morning sun—slow, steady warmth.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon sugar and maple, his scent layered over it.
The solid weight of his chest, the steady anchor of his hands.
He walked her backward, deepening the kiss until she hit the hallway wall with a soft bump.
“You’re trouble,” she accused.
“The good kind,” he murmured, mouth at her jaw, his smile against her skin.
She couldn’t disagree. He tasted like coffee and sugar and everything sweet. Her blood went molten. She wanted to be playful about it because their moods had risen like sunlight—bright, uncomplicated—but the wanting was also immediate and low and sure.
She nipped his lower lip. He made a sound that melted her knees. “Bedroom?” he asked.
“Mmm-mm.” She slid her hands to the hem of his T-shirt. “Too far.”
His laugh was pure delight. “Sofa? Floor? Against this very cooperative wall?”
She flattened her palm over his heart. “I love how you think.”
“Say it again,” he said, soft.
She did, because it never got old. “I love you.”
He stilled, then kissed her like the words lived in his mouth too. “I love you, April.”
She was happy, dizzy with it. Not careful or wondering or braced. Just happy.
“Wall,” she decided, because there was a wicked little thrill in being a grown woman in her own home making out in the hallway at ten in the morning. “And then bed, because I like sprawling.”
“Copy that.” His hands slid under her shirt and closed around the backs of her thighs, lifting.
She went up with a surprised laugh and wrapped around him, trusting him the way her body had learned to trust him—without argument.
He bracketed her against the wall, careful, his forearms taking his weight, the press of his cock right where she wanted it.
He kissed her mouth, the corner of her smile, down the line of her throat. “Tell me what you want,” he said into her skin.
“You,” she said simply, shocking herself with how easy it was to say the things she used to tuck into a box in her mind. “I want to play. I want… fast and slow. I want to feel you being happy because I’m happy.”
He groaned like she’d granted a secret wish. “Fast and slow is my specialty.”
“I’ve noticed,” she said primly, and then ruined it with a breathy, “please.”
He chuckled as he set her down gently and peeled her shirt off in one long, worshipful motion.
She stood in the bright band of the hallway window, unselfconscious in a way she hadn’t been in years.
The way he looked at her helped—no hunger without reverence, no taking without offering.
His gaze said, you are safe, you are wanted, this is ours.
She reached for his waistband. “Now you,” she said, like a cheerful tyrant, and tugged him out of his t-shirt and sweatpants. The sight of all that rangy muscle, that smooth scar under his ribs she’d kissed a dozen times, sent another fizz through her. “Hello, Sailor.”
“Good morning, Taylor.” He dipped his head, mouth at her collarbone. “Reminder that I’m terrible at patience around you.”
“Lucky me.”
He eased her shorts down, encouraging her to step out. She did, laughing when her foot got caught and he steadied her with gentle hands. She leaned into the wall while he went to his knees.
“Oh,” she said, brightly, a totally giddy, “we’re doing this first?”
He tipped his head back, eyes gone playful and hot. “Always happy to put my mouth where my promises are.”
“Smooth,” she said as she rolled her eyes.
But her breath hitched when he kissed the inside of her knee, then higher.
There was nothing shy or apologetic in her this time—no one was home, no one needed her in the next room, nothing could reach this narrow hallway but sunshine and a pleased dog sleeping in the other room on Kevin’s bed.
She threaded her fingers into his hair and let herself feel everything.
He was unhurried today, which should have been illegal.
Slow kisses up her inner thigh that stalled right at where her hip met her torso, his hands anchoring her, his breath teasing where she was already slick for him.
He looked up once, checking—always checking—and whatever he saw in her face made him smile at the corner of his mouth in that satisfied way that felt like a secret code only she knew.