"Gran, please," she corrects firmly. "And Pearl is an excellent judge of character. She doesn't tolerate just anyone." Gran turns to Charlie with an expression of pure satisfaction. "Charles, I thought the two of you might enjoy eating on the patio under the willow tree. The weather is lovely, and you've both earned a rest."
"Oscar packed the turkey and avocado sandwiches you like, and there's a bottle of white wine chilling in the basket." As if on cue, Oscar appears from the kitchen with a picnic basket and hands it to Charlie with a small nod.
Gran pats Charlie's arm and turns to me. "Make sure he behaves himself, dear."
"I'll do my best," I say, and Gran's laugh is warm and genuine as she disappears down a hallway.
I follow Charlie through the house and out the French doors that lead to the patio. Just beyond it, beneath the willow tree, I spot a blanket laid out on the grass with cushions propped against the trunk.
Charlie follows my gaze and chuckles low, shaking his head. "That woman is about as subtle as a snake bite," he murmurs, but his voice is full of fondness rather than rancor.
The willow's long branches sweep the ground like curtains, and beneath the canopy the light filters through the leaves in shifting patterns of gold and green. The air is cool and private, and something about the intimacy of it makes my pulse quicken.
He sets the basket down and opens it, and inside I find the sandwiches, two brownie squares, a chilled bottle of white wine, linen napkins, real silverware, and a small glass vase with a single rose in it.
Charlie sets out the food, and I settle against one of the cushions with my legs stretched out in front of me. My muscles are already sore from riding, and the cool shade feels like a gift.
"Your grandmother missed her calling as an event planner," I comment, picking up a sandwich.
"She does have a talent for it." Charlie pours the wine and hands me a glass. "She's been asking about you since the dinner party. I think she likes you."
"She barely knows me."
"Gran makes up her mind fast about people."
I take a sip of wine and let the quiet settle between us. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"You sent me duck photos all week, but you never once mentioned Saturday night." I run my finger along the rim of my glass. "Was that deliberate?"
He holds my gaze. "It was." He turns his glass slowly in his hands. "I could tell you weren't exactly sure about us after that kiss. I wanted to give you room to figure it out."
I have spent my adult life around men who push, who crowd, who interpret any opening as an invitation to claim more than what was offered. Charlie gave me space, and now I see that his distance was a gift instead of a rejection.
"If you’ll remember, I kissedyou," I argue, my tone light. "I grabbed your collar and pulled you back down, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since."
His breath catches, and the sound of it in the quiet beneath the willow tree is the most satisfying thing I have heard all week.
"Sunny." My name comes out of him low and rough, almost a growl, and the sound of it sends a tremor through me all the way to my toes.
"I spent five days wondering if you were going to ask me out again. When you didn't, I started to worry if maybe that kiss was enough for you." I set my glass down and turn to face him fully. "I need you to know that it wasn’t enough for me."
His hazel eyes are intense and steady, and his jaw has loosened in a way that suggests I’ve caught him off guard. Charlie comes across as a man who plans his moves carefully, who waits for the other side to come to him. And I’ve just closed the distance he left for my benefit.
"Come here," he says, and his voice is raw.
I put my hand on his chest and his heart pounds beneath my palm, fast and hard. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and I lean forward, pressing my mouth to his.
This kiss is different from the one on my porch. That one was surprise and surrender, two people who’d been circling each other for weeks finally colliding. This is a deliberate choice. I’m kissing Charlie under a willow tree on his ranch with the taste of wine on both our lips. I’m not running, and I’m not afraid.
His hand cups my jaw, and he kisses me back with a hunger that makes me shudder. His mouth is slow and thorough, his tongue teasing mine. His other hand finds my waist and draws me closer, and I go willingly, my knees pressing into the blanket as I lean into him. The heat of his palm burns through my tank top, and my fingers slide from his chest to the back of his neck, pulling him deeper.
When I draw back, his eyes are still closed, and the expression on his face is one I will carry with me for a long time. He opens his eyes slowly, and the look in them is equal parts wonder and warmth and something fierce that he’s keeping carefully in check.
"For the record," he says, and his voice is rougher than before, "one kiss with you will never be enough."
I smile, and for the first time in years, the expression feels like it belongs on my face. "Good. Because I plan to do that again."
