And he’d picked me.
Me.
He’d not only picked me, he’d said he’d waited thirty-fiveyears for me.
So I stood just inside his door and I did this not feelinguncomfortable.
I felt for the only time in my life outside the time I hitthe Denver city limits like I was right where I was supposed to be.
What I wasn’t going to do was make myself at home.
No, I reckoned if the entry was that fabulous, the rest wasgoing to blow my mind.
And I wanted to experience it with Marcus.
So I didn’t leave the entry.I walked to the windows, staredout at the Front Range, and waited for him to come back.
“Honey, I told you to make yourself at home.”
I turned to see Marcus coming down the final wind to thestairs wearing another pair of nice jeans, these topped with a garnet-coloredsweater with a handsome, manly shawled collar.
“I didn’t want to experience your place without you withme,” I told him.
A look passed his face right before he got in my space.
I didn’t have a chance to figure out what the look meantseeing as a nanosecond after he got in my space, I was in his arms and he waskissing me.
And that kiss was another doozy, slightly less of one thanwhat he gave me that morning, seeing as we were standing up and we both had onmore clothes (well, Marcus did, I had on a pair of faded jeans withstrategically-placed worn spots (a lot of them), high-heeled, gray leathercowboy boots with turquoise ostrich feathers stitched in, and a silveryoff-the-shoulder sweater that held on to my boobs by a miracle, so not moreclothes, exactly, just more coverage, kind of).
The kiss was still a doozy.
When he lifted his head, I was having trouble breathing andI was holding on to his shoulders because my legs had gone weak.
“Want a tour?”he whispered.
Hell yes, I wanted a tour.
Though I’d prefer another kiss.
Horizontal again this time.
I didn’t share that.
I nodded.
He grinned.
Then he let me go, took my hand, and gave me a tour.
And we’ll just say I was right.
The entry was pure class.
The rest of it was like a dream.
“I’m having Kelly clear my schedule so next week wecan go to my place in Aspen.”
I sat at his side at his impressive dining room table wherehe sat at the head, a fork with linguine wrapped around its tines, Marcus’shomemade buttery, garlicky clam sauce dripping off it halfway to my mouth, andI looked to him.
