“That’s a self-resolving problem,” Tom said. “Because after my shower and theDrag Racefinale and a couple hours of foreplay, you’ll be plenty sober.”
“Is that how it works? I don’t really do casual sex,” she confided.
“It doesn’t have to be casual,” he said. He hadn’t thought of it that way.
Rosie squirmed beneath his grip. “I especially don’t think you and I could have the serious kind.”
“We had a lot of extremely serious sex within five hundred yards of this exact spot,” Tom pointed out.
“You know what I mean. That didn’t end well.” She sighed heavily, looking away as he lowered her wrists. “Am I the only one who finds this tricky to navigate?”
She seemed to expect him to back away, but he didn’t. There were definitely some tricky parts, but not this—this had always felt very simple to him. Wanting her.
“What are you worried will happen?” he asked.
She fixed slightly bloodshot blue eyes on him and tried to focus. “You know. I’ll get hurt. You’ll get hurt. We’ll wonder why we thought things would work out any better this time.”
Was that all? Fear of future regrets? Tom could report thatregret was nonfatal, even when it felt otherwise. It wasn’t regret that had kept him from anything he wanted in his life. Regret wasn’t something to fear. Regret had pointed his way home. Regret had brought him here.
“Babe,” he said softly. “Are you really sorry for any of the days when I kissed you?”
Rosie wet her lips, thinking, then shook her head. No. Everything they regretted had happened on days he hadn’t.
“Well, since I already kissed you once today, we’re clear till midnight,” he announced.
He knew there were some logical flaws in that argument, but she gave him a brief smile before he pressed his mouth to hers again. This time, when his lips begged hers for more, she opened to him sweetly, and he got to absorb the hot wet of her mouth and the intoxication of her scent with all his senses. He clutched her tighter, savoring the soft, warm weight of her body against him. Rosie finally slid her hands into his hair, which was full of dust and needed cutting, but the tug of her fingers took him back to other times, other beds where he’d held her in the same position: an extra-long twin in the Boston College dorms, the salvaged IKEA full they’d shared their senior year, the big four-poster king in the suite at the inn.
He dipped his head to the wet satin clinging to her front, mouthing her skin through the fabric. The water stain didn’t go down quite far enough, so he pressed his tongue against her nipple through her shirt before sucking it into his mouth. He was rewarded with a sharp inhale and the lift of her hips, but before he could pursue that movement, there was a noise from the other side of the room. A knock.
Tom didn’t stop, because he didn’t care about the noise at all. He didn’t care who was at the door: it could have been the pope and Bernadette Peters together with a flat tire breakdown, and he’d tell them to take a hike. He had Rosie back in his arms.
But Rosie noticed it too, and she pushed him off her.
She sat up and adjusted her shirt. As her front was barely decent, she wrapped herself with a throw blanket and called, “Come in!”
Boyd hesitantly opened the door and stuck his head into the cottage.
“Hey,” Boyd rumbled. He looked at Tom—who anyone could have perceived to be half-hard andin the middle of something—cringed, then turned his attention to Rosie. “Just wanted to see if you still wanted to order pizza. The Great Puffin said she’s hungry.”
Rosie’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Pizza sounds amazing.”
Tom made a noise of protest. “I was going to cook tonight.” Shakshouka. Cheap, healthy, and it only got one pan dirty: an appeal to a very basic caveman standard ofI can provide sustenance for you and your offspring; please let me back in the cave.
“Do you have enough for Boyd and the girls too?” Rose asked.
“No,” Tom replied, surprised at her eagerness to keep them around. He wasn’t feeding someone who lived on entire, unseasoned salmons and rotisserie chickens, much less his pornographers. Why was she so interested in their company?
“Okay, you and I can do dinner tomorrow, then,” Rosie told him, ignoring his disappointed grimace. “Did you check to seewhether anyone delivers out here?” she asked, turning back to Boyd.
“I can go pick it up,” Boyd volunteered.
Tom sat up. “Were you drinking too?” he demanded.
Boyd’s big shoulders bunched defensively. “Not very much,” he said. “It’s tiny glasses of wine at the tastings.”
Tom sighed, trying to convey to Boyd his annoyance. How had he ended up in charge of Boydanda set of hotel renovations, when all he’d wanted to do was get Rosie alone somewhere for a few days? “You promised meno drivingif you had anything to drink at all,” Tom said firmly. “Go back to the inn. I’ll get the pizza. And tell the kids they have to scram after dinner.”
Boyd bobbed his head in an agreeable, submissive way and closed the door. Tom snarled and stood up, thinking about baseball and hunting for his socks.
