“Dahlia. Ivy. Briar.”
I ease off his chest to stare at him. “Are you having a stroke?”
“I’m amending the rules. I get bonus baby names anytime you downplay your achievements or speak about yourself like you don’t deserve wonderful things.”
“You mean I don’t even have to say the word ‘sorry’?”
“Laurel,” he says. “Savannah.”
“Stop it.” Whacking his chest with the back of my hand, I settle backdown with my cheekbone kissing his pec. “I wasn’t actually apologizing that time. Just uttering the word in illustration.”
“Let Savannah be stricken from the record,” he says. “But not Laurel. I like that one.”
“And I liked Savannah.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I sort of like Laurel, too. Maybe more than Savannah, but no need to let Luke get too cocky.
He goes back to stroking my hair. “Seriously, though. Congratulations on the award.”
“Thanks.” A syrupy warmth threads through my veins. It might not be from the sex. “They praised me for Spencer Development’s generous benefits package and our charitable work. That, and increasing our profit margin by eleven percent year over year.”
Maybe Luke hears it in my voice. Somehow he knows it’s the charity angle that means the most to me. “I love how committed you are to giving back. How hard you work to be part of the community.”
“I try.” The glide of his hand down my back coaxes the rest of the words out. “You’re no slouch yourself.” I haven’t glanced at his payroll since before I slapped him with that silly parental rights paperwork, but I know he’s generous to a fault. “You give a pretty large portion of each paycheck to Kayley’s Foundation.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, stroking my back. “It doesn’t make up for what happened to Kayley Hunter, but maybe it can help keep other teenagers from getting into trouble.”
“I think that’s noble.”
He shrugs, then changes the subject. “You support a lot of causes for children. I saw one on the Spencer Holdings website that helps fund plastic surgery for kids with burn scars and birth defects.”
“Kids can be cruel,” I say. “And money shouldn’t be the dividing line between who gets corrective surgery and who winds up being teased for a craniofacial abnormality like cleft palate or microtia.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Not everyone does.”
I trail my hand down his belly, fingertips tracing the jagged scar that snakes from his ribs to his hip. “How did you get this?”
“Prison fight. You shoulda seen the other guy.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking. “I’m sure you had reasons for?—”
“I’m kidding,” he says, catching my hand and pressing my palm to the spot right over his heart. “I was four years old and woke up in the night desperately wanting to play with Dad’s Hot Wheels. No one else was awake, so I pulled out the drawers on a dresser and tried to climb them like a ladder.”
“Oh, God.”
“Yeah,” he continues. “That didn’t work out so hot. I wound up with twenty-six stitches and broke Dad’s vintage Sky Crash Tower. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”
“Oh, honey.” I peel my cheek off his chest to peer into his eyes. “You know that’s not why he left, right? Little boys get into trouble. Little girls, too. Parents don’t leave when their children break things.”
“Yeah, I know you’re right.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Just like you probably know theoretically that your mom didn’t move to Europe because of anything you did. But it’s hard to completely wipe that idea from your head.”
“That’s true.” I never considered we had this in common. “What brought you to Cherry Blossom Lake?”
“The hot woman at the helm of Spencer Development.” He laughs when I smack him. “I’m only half kidding. I didn’t know about you, specifically, but I liked the idea of working for the largest construction firm on the coast.”
“We’re lucky to have you.”
