She did not have time for—she squeezed her eyes shut.
—or for the way she hadn’t stopped him.
Worse—the way she’d stepped closer.
Heat crept up her neck.
“Fantastic,” she muttered.
Because now she got to be embarrassed.
And irritated.
At him, for starting it.
At herself—for not ending it.
Good grief.
She pushed herself upright, dragged on a soft sweater and jeans over her camisole, and padded down the hall.
The house was quiet.
Grant’s door stood open.
Empty.
In the kitchen, the coffeepot sat half full. A note leaned against it, his handwriting a little neater than she would have guessed.
Izzy—
Had to head out early. Horses don’t feed themselves. Coffee’s fresh. Caitlin will swing by in a bit. —G
She read it twice.
“Of course,” she said softly.
Distance. Good. Helpful. Exactly what she’d told herself she wanted last night—if you ignored every place her skin still remembered his hands.
She poured coffee, doctored it the way she liked, and tried very hard not to think about what his hand had felt like splayed across her back.
* * *
It was late morning when Caitlin’s SUV rolled up the drive—right on time.
Izzy met her on the porch, coffee mug in one hand, the other shoved casually into her pocket like that would somehow steady her.
Caitlin practically bounced out of the driver’s seat.
“Hi,” she said, eyes still a little puffy from last night’s happy crying and somehow brighter for it. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Izzy said. “What’s first on the grand Caitlin West Sunday Tour?”
“Horses,” Caitlin said immediately. “Then I’ll sneak us into the museum. Then we’ll see how much energy we have left.”
Izzy’s heart did a small, treacherous flip at the word “horses.”
“Okay,” she said. “Horses.”
