"If you want."
"I want."
That was all the encouragement he needed.
Afterwards, they lay tangled together in the morning light, sweat-slicked and breathing hard and utterly content.
"We should probably get up," she said eventually.
"Probably."
Neither of them moved.
"My mother's still at the apartment."
"Most likely."
"She's probably very upset."
"Almost certainly."
A long pause.
"I still don't want to move."
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Then don't. We could stay here forever. I'll have food delivered. We'll become hermits. The townspeople will tell legends of us."
"*The Hermits of the Vineyard,*" she said dryly. "Known for their excellent wine and refusal to deal with difficult mothers."
"I'd buy that book."
She swatted his shoulder lightly. "I have to face her eventually. And I need to check on the shop. Mrs. Patterson has a standing order for Tuesdays."
"It's Sunday."
"Is it?" She blinked. "I've completely lost track."
"Time stops meaning much when you're having mind-blowing sex."
"Thallos."
"What? It's true." He grinned at her scandalized expression. "Fine. I'll be slightly less smug. But only slightly."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. "I should shower."
"I'll join you."
"That won't make the shower go faster."
"No," he agreed. "But it will make it more enjoyable."
The shower took twice as long as strictly necessary.
By the time they emerged—clean and flushed and grinning like fools—the sun had climbed higher in the sky. He dug through his dresser for clothes while Marigold collected her things from where they'd been scattered the night before.
Her blouse was slightly wrinkled. Her skirt had somehow ended up halfway across the room. She gathered them with a rueful expression.
"I look like I'm doing the walk of shame," she said. "Again."
