Julia had been on the verge of sleep. After Britt disposed of the condom, he’d rejoined her on the pallet. With the smoldering embers at her back and his warmth pressed all along her front because she’d thrown a leg over his thighs and cradled her head in the nook of his shoulder —that space on a man’s body was perfectly formed to hold a woman’s cheek—she’d been content to give in to the pull of slumber.
“Mmm?” she asked sleepily, loving the tickle of his chest hair against her cheek. Loving the solidlub-dubof his heartbeat against her ear.
“March,” he said again. “You said you hate orange marmalade, the month of March, and going to the dentist. I get the dentist.Noone likes going to the dentist. The sound of the tools scraping against your teeth is just…” He shuddered dramatically. “And orange marmalade is understandable. I mean, I don’thateit. But I’d much rather slather strawberry jam or grape jelly on a piece of toast. But March? What’s wrong with March?”
She wrinkled her nose. “What’srightwith March is the better question. It’s bitterly cold. The snow on the ground is so old it’s gray. And everyone is cranky as hell because they can’t go outside without first putting on three layers of clothes. Statistics say violent crime peaks in Chicago over the summer. But I bet dollars to doughnuts thatnonviolent crime, the petty stuff, all the misdemeanors and misconduct that stems from a general sense of malaise and irritation, happens in the month of March.”
When he hummed, she felt it vibrate against her cheek. “I reckon that’s the difference between a Southerner and a Midwesterner.”
“How so?” She snuggled closer, loving how his arm automatically tightened around her waist.
“In Charleston, March is thebestmonth. The gray winter days are behind you, but summer's hot soupy days are still weeks off. March is when the flowers bloom. When you can sit outside and drink sweet tea without having to coat yourself in mosquito repellent. When you don’t have to worry about a hurricane blowing in while you’re fishing on the marshes.”
It was her turn to hum her appreciation. “That sounds lovely.”
“Have you ever been to Charleston?”
“Hmm-mmm.” She shook her head slightly and was rewarded with a warm kiss pressed to the crown of her head. “But I’ve heard good things.”
She thought he might invite her to go there with him. Thought he might want to show her his hometown. She was a little disappointed when all he said was, “It’s worth the trip for the food alone.”
Right.
Because they weren’t a couple. There wouldn’t be any trips. Hell, there wouldn’t be any nights beyond this one.
Slam, bam, thank-you-ma’am. Isn’t that what I agreed to?she thought a little despondently.
Then she thought,No. Don’t mourn what you won’t have. Revel in what you do have. You’re in a cozy cabin in the woods. There’s a warm fire at your back, and you’re lying in the arms of the world’s sexiest man. Things could be worse.
“What’s your favorite Charleston staple?” she asked, lazily drawing a shape around his navel up to his pecs and back down again.
“She crab soup,” he answered automatically.
“I’m assuming that’s different fromhecrab soup?” she quipped, proud of her own wit.
“It’s a crab bisque made from female crabs. It’s orange because of the roe they carry.”
Thathad her pushing up on her elbow to blink down into his handsome face. The glowing embers in the hearth turned his tanned skin to burnished gold and made his blue eyes darken to the color of the sea before a storm.
“Roe as ineggs? It’s a soup made from pregnant crabs?”
He bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the horror on her face. “So let me see if I have this straight. You’d be fine if it were soup made from regular old crabs, male or female, but if it’s female crabs carrying eggs,that’sthe bridge too far?”
“Yes,” she declared with a staunch dip of her chin.
He chuckled lowly. She felt the reverberation in her own chest, and it was such a delicious sensation.
Not as delicious as all the things he’d done to her over the last hour or so—truly, the man was a marvel. But wonderfully nice all the same.
“Tell me,” he said once he’d sobered. “Do you eat crab legs?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”
“Have you ever had caviar?”
“Once at a Southside fireman’s gala that my dad and my brothers made me go to.” She curled her lip. “I didn’t care for it. Too salty.”
“So you’ll eat crabs. And you’ll eat eggs. But a soup made with the crabs and their eggs is gross?”
