Behind me the TV comes on. I hesitate at the door, and then turn to find Dax standing by the couch, beer in hand, his eyes on me.

  Without a word, I softly shut the front door.

  He puts down the remote and the beer.

  I cross the room and I’m in his arms before my next breath.

  “Change your mind?” he murmurs, his arms tightening around me.

  “I’m delaying my decision to leave.”

  “It’s your decision to make.”

  The choice is in my hands. The power is heavier than I’d like, but in this case, I’ll take it. It’s safer than discussing where to go next.

  “Whatcha watchin’?” I grin, forcing the mood to lighten by about two tons. “Do I have a vote?”

  “Sorry, Princess. You get the say-so in everything but the TV. That’s my domain.”

  I give in with an “I can live with that.”

  Then we go to the couch and settle in.

  Well, after I grab myself a beer.

  SUNDAY MORNING

  Dax

  The coffeepot sputters at the end of the brew cycle, and I hold my breath to listen. From the bedroom comes a sound between a snore and a purr. I let Becca sleep in. I woke up about fifteen minutes ago, slid out of bed, and fired up the coffeepot. Somehow she didn’t stir when I climbed out of bed, and she still doesn’t now, when the scent of freshly brewed joe saturates the air.

  Understandable. It was a long night.

  We watched back-to-back movies on HBO. She fell asleep on the couch, conking out halfway through the second. I guess Hitman wasn’t her bag.

  She didn’t go back to Tad and Lara’s house, and I didn’t put that option in front of her again. I don’t think she wanted to leave. I didn’t want her to leave. Even with our newly minted rule, I want her here.

  My phone vibrates on the counter. This early, it can only be one person. I check the screen.

  Yep. Just as I thought.

  I slip out the front door, mug in hand, and answer with a hushed “Hey, Mom.”

  “My, don’t you sound spent. Rough night?”

  “You know better than to ask me that. You won’t want the answer.” I walk to a wooden rocker and lower myself into it. The sun is out, drying up yesterday’s rain.

  “It’s the girl, isn’t it?” my mom asks. “I told you after she got to know you, she wouldn’t be able to resist you.”

  “Yes, you did,” I agree, though Becca’s resisting me just fine. “We’ll wrap it up this week.”

  A squirrel skitters down the post closest to me and jerks like he’s surprised to see me there. He leaps off the railing and dashes through scattered pine needles before climbing a tall fir.

  Reminds me of Becca’s reaction last night. Except she turned and came back to me. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t know what to make of any of it.

  “Why do you say that?” Mom asks.

  “We had a discussion. The ‘will we last past next week’ discussion,” I reiterate. “She decided now was enough for her.”

  My mother lets out a grunt of disagreement.

  “Don’t worry.” I finish my lukewarm coffee. Gonna need a few more of these today to keep my eyes open. Especially if I want to hike like I planned yesterday. Rain or shine, I’m going.

  “I tell you not to worry about me all the time, and do you listen?”

  “No.” A tired smile pulls my lips.

  “Well?”

  “Fine. Worry. But it’ll be in vain. No sense in developing new wrinkles over it or anything.”

  She takes my good-natured ribbing on the chin and then fills me in on the reason she called. Apparently a farmer called about the land at the back of her property. He offered to buy it.

  “It’s a generous offer,” she concludes.

  “No shit.” The number is such a high one, I had to ask her to repeat it. She doesn’t scold me for swearing. Mine was the right reaction to that amount of money.

  “I don’t want the chores that come with keeping the land. I have plenty of money. I just want my little house.”

  Her “little” house is 2,500 square feet, so don’t take that statement to heart. “Then sell the land.”

  “You won’t be upset?”

  “Why would I be upset?”

  “You used to climb the trees out there. Explore the creek. Camp in the woods.”

  “I’m camping in the woods now, Mom. I haven’t camped in your backyard for nearly twenty years.”

  “That’s a good point.” In the silence stretching between us, I sense more is going on than she’s telling me.

  “Are you sure you want to sell it?” I ask.

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Do you want it?”

  There’s a lengthy pause as she considers. “Whenever I look back there, I picture your father on the riding mower, wearing his hat, cutting down the tall grass. I hated losing that.”

  “I know.” We hated losing him and everything he embodied. “But even if you sell it, there will be grass. Unless the buyer builds a shopping mall.”

  “No, nothing like that,” she’s quick to say. “It’s not zoned for shopping.”

  Mom’s a retired city surveyor. That’s why I don’t ask a million questions. She knows her stuff.

  “Well, then, you can still look out at the field and imagine Dad mowing and wearing his hat.” I remember that too.

  I have the same picture in my head. It brings a smile with the hurt, and I’m beginning to think that’s the way I’ll feel for the rest of my life whenever I remember him. Happy and hurt at the same time. That emotion needs a name. I guess that’s what grief is, isn’t it?

  “I don’t need those acres,” Mom says.

  “But you want it.”

  “I can’t take care of it.”

  “But you want it,” I repeat.

  “I want it. But selling it is more logical.”

  “But you want it. So keep it. Keep paying the landscaping company to take care of it, and call that guy back and let him know you’re not ready to sell yet.”

  It’s her choice; she should make the one she wants. God knows not all of us can have what we want. She may as well. I pinch the bridge of my nose again and resent that my ability to frown has returned with such ease.

  “Hmm. Maybe I could ask him to check back in a year,” my mom says, sounding thoughtful.

  “Tell him it’s a ‘no, not right now.’ Sometimes that’s all no means.”

  “I could say the same to you about your girl in Tennessee. Maybe she’ll change her mind later.”

  “Mom.”

  “To know you is to love you.”

  “Mom.”

  “Trust me, son. I’ve known you for thirty-three years. And I love you.”

  Yeah, but she isn’t like Becca. Mom sticks things out. Sees them through. She’s loyal and steadfast.

  Even if Becca were all of those rolled into one, I’d have to consider the scars left from my last relationship. I loved Courtney and she bailed with no more than a thinly veiled excuse. Then, almost immediately, she started dating another guy.

  Becca and I will part ways eventually anyway—she said so herself. Now, or in three weeks. Or three months. I’m not big on having another wound to lick. Mourning my dad is hard enough. And I’m not going to try to force Becca to change her mind. I promised her I wouldn’t, and I won’t.

  So our last week together has been reduced to fling status. So what? I have plenty to do when I go back home without maintaining a relationship. Remember what I said about how pancakes and blow jobs should be enough? Well, they are.

  I decided that.

  No.

  I decreed it.

  Come this time Saturday morning, I’ll be packing up and leaving Becca in Tennessee. I’ll kiss her goodbye, I’ll climb in my Jeep, and I won’t look back.

  Starting to have second thoughts about naming the recipe after her too. She wants the ties cut? I’ll cut ’em. Right off at the ankles.

  I end the call with Mom and set my coffee cup at my feet while I watch the woodland creatures fly and climb and scurry. I’m deep in thought about nothing at all when I hear the squeak of the screen door.

  Becca walks out, her hair its usual styled mess, a steaming mug in hand. She’s barefoot and wearing last night’s clothes. She sits in the rocker next to mine.

  After her first sip of coffee, she says, “We literally slept together last night and did not have sex.”

  “Some fling havers we are.” I give her a wink and rock my chair.

  “Sorry to conk out on you. My family wears me out.”

  “Families do that.”

  “Was that your mom on the phone? How is she?”

  Becca looking sleep-rumpled is doing more than stirring my dick. She’s tempting me to lean back in this rocker and listen to the birds chirp while I talk about my mom and the land and how much we both miss my dad. But that conversation would cross several lines we agreed not to cross.

  I keep rocking and say nothing, hoping I don’t have to explain. Becca’s smart. She figures out the reason behind my silence.

  “I guess asking about your mom isn’t very flinglike either, is it?”

  “You tell me. You ask other guys about their moms?”

  She shakes her head. If I weren’t planning on leaving her behind in a matter of days, I might say it’s a sad head shake. I might sweep her off that chair and pull her onto my lap and tell her everything. About my mom. About my dad. Then I’d listen to stories about her parents. But that’s not who we are.

  Not anymore.

  “I guess the lines are a little blurry.” She wrinkles her nose.

  “You’re in charge of when you come and go, Princess. I’ll give you that.”

  “And that’s all you can give me.”

  “That and a few screaming orgasms.” That’s what she decided.

  I vow to make it as fun for both of us as possible.

  Chapter 22

  TUESDAY

  Dax

  I kiss Becca’s neck as I collapse on top of her, supporting my weight on my elbows to keep from smashing her flat.

  “We found our way back.” She grins. Satisfied and smiling.

  Perfect.

  Wonder if my dad’s death had started clouding the way I was with Becca. Losing him made me consider a future with a woman for the first time in a long time. Not that I came here looking for that, but it was stewing in the back of my mind. Then I met Becca and let myself think that she could be my future. I put a lot on her, a lot on myself.

  Now that I’ve gone back to letting things come naturally, my relationship with her means only what it should, and no more: that we’re really good at blowing each other’s minds in the sack.

  I lay another kiss on her neck and inhale her soft perfume. Most of the traces of it have faded, but it’s there. I hum against her skin and kiss her again before pulling out and dealing with the condom.

  I walk back to my cabin bedroom from the attached bathroom to find her lying there, sheet pulled to her chest, eyes on me.

  “That smile is what keeps me working hard, Princess.” I climb into bed next to her.

  “Well, you trying so hard is what keeps me coming back.” She rolls over and hugs my rib cage.

  I gently stroke her arm. I suck in a breath and almost ask if things are good with her brother, but it’s better not to sail those choppy waters.

  I reroute with “Work good?”

  “Yeah...” Sounds like there’s more to come, but after a second or two, she exhales without saying more. I wonder if she was going to but decided those waters were choppy for her as well.

  Getting used to our new arrangement is taking some doing.

  “It never would’ve worked,” she blurts.

  Assuming she means us, I say nothing. I’m not turning over what could’ve or would’ve been. That’s a dangerous road down which lies regret. I don’t do regret.

  “Me cooking for Grand Lark, I mean.”

  Right. That.

  “I like the office work. I call vendors, and book guests, and answer customer service emails. Ordering the supplies is fun. Oh! And today I shopped for new wall hangings for some of the cabins. It was like playing house.”

  I continue stroking her arm and absolutely do not think about how she might also be “playing house” with me.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “About the quesadillas recipe...” She leans on an elbow, eyes wary as she watches for my reaction. “It’s my gift to you, Dax. Don’t put my name on it. Don’t pay me for it. Please. Take it. I want you to have it.”

  If that didn’t sound like the final nail in the “us” coffin, I’m not sure what would. How about that? We made it. Not many flings are this successful—where everyone walks away with what they want.

  I swipe her cheek with my thumb, then drag that thumb around to her chin. I study her beauty in the fading light from the windows, memorizing the way her nose slopes and the freckles that dot her cheekbones.

  Truth? I’m not sure I’m getting what I want. She’s given me no choice but to graciously accept, so that’s what I do.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  She looks away first. I move my hand down her bare back and, because I can’t resist, around to cup her breast. I slide the pad of my thumb across her nipple and watch as she shivers in response.

  “What are your big plans for the rest of your stay?” she asks. “I only ask as a dedicated customer service provider of Grand Lark.”

  Cute.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to hike to that spot we were going to hike to before we were rained out.” Rained out and rerouted to a birthday dinner for her dad where I nearly beat the shit out of her brother.

  “You’ll love that area.” She traces circles over my chest and averts her gaze. “If you need a tour guide, I know a girl who would go with you. And she’ll pack a homemade lunch.”

  “Throw in sex on the picnic blanket, babe, and you have yourself a deal.”

  “Really?” She beams.

  “It’s your fling.” I want her to enjoy every second of it.

  “I’d love to show you around. I can categorize that as part of my job and take a little extra time off to do it.”

  “Not the sex part. I think that’s illegal.”

  “I think sex this good should be illegal, Mr. Vaughn.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “Have you ever considered offering a moonlight escort service for female clientele back home?”

  I slide my palms over her ass and pull her on top of me. All my favorite parts of her are now touching all my favorite parts of me.

  “You think I could have a backup career?” I squeeze her supple cheeks with both hands.

  “I know you could.” She arches one eyebrow before she kisses me.

  After a lot of tongue, complete with roaming hands, we find our way back to what we’re best at: Me wringing orgasms out of her, and her giving them to me in return.

  WEDNESDAY

  Becca

  I’m sure you want to lecture me right about now, but I know what I’m doing. I know how to have sex and not let it cloud my judgment. I know how to keep the man I’m sleeping with out of my every waking thought.

  Usually.

  Today feels different.

  Dax and I are going on a hike. I’ll be outside, surrounded by glorious mountains, soaking up the sun, and sweating out my demons. Not in the way I’ve been sweating them out lately—beneath the two hundred pounds of muscle that is Dax Vaughn. Nope, I’m going to clear my head the old-fashioned way.

  With exercise.

  I wear the outfit I’d planned on before the rain delay—short, frayed pale blue shorts that ride quite high on my thighs, Timberland hiking boots and sturdy socks, and a white tank top with a red-and-black plaid shirt tied in a knot at my waist. Beneath my “lumberjill” outfit I’m wearing the naughtiest underwear I own.

  Dax picks me up at the main building, since the hiking area is closer to Grand Lark’s home office. I know it sounds dumb to drive to where you’re going to hike, but there’s no way to get there from his cabin without sliding down a ninety-degree hill face.

  His Jeep turns into the parking lot, where I wait under the overhang. The top’s off. The doors are off. A ball cap shields his eyes. He does that one-handed circle thing with the steering wheel to straighten the tires. My pulse flutters at the side of my throat.

  I ignore it.

  Of course he’s going to make my heart flutter. I’m looking forward to fantastic food, fantastic sex, and a welcome break from work. Whose heart wouldn’t flutter?

  Toting our lunch in a soft-sided cooler, I hop into the passenger seat. From underneath a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses, Dax gives me a swoony grin.

  “How long we got?” He takes the cooler from my hands and places it behind the seat.

  “I took an extended lunch, so I don’t have to be back for two hours. Ish.”

  “Ish, huh?” He reverses out of the lot as I buckle in.

  “You know me. I like to leave an opening.”

  “Yeah, Princess. I know that about you.”

  He has been nothing but supportive for days. Which I’m all for. I think. A nagging voice in the back of my brain speaks up whenever he’s super compliant. I’m trying to ignore it.

  I direct him to the entrance to the woods, and after bumping along a path clearly marked NO TRESPASSING (Tad posted that sign—the land is his), we come to a stop and park in the sun.

  “This it?” Dax grabs the cooler.

  “I can carry it.”

  “My ass.” He steps out of the vehicle, pulls on a backpack and then slides the cooler’s strap over one broad shoulder.

  I admire the way he moves. The smooth way he does just about anything. He’s wearing a coffee-colored LIFE IS GOOD tee. The screen-printed image is a dog holding a marshmallow on a stick next to a campfire. Dax’s baggy cargo shorts are deep green, and on his feet: a good ol’ pair of Nikes.