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He gestured her toward him, and with a heavenward glance, she complied. He’d tried to teach her the basics a couple of times, early in their relationship, the first time he’d volunteered with Eleanor’s winter basketball league. She’d been awkward and he’d been amused and those lessons had ended there. She’d seen him play, and they were nowhere near the same league.

“You roll off your fingertips, pushing the ball with your biceps.” His fingers a light grasp around her wrist, he turned her palm face up and placed the ball there. “Aim at the square on the backboard, not the rim.”

Biting back a comment, she followed directions and missed, miserably. He loped after the ball, and she refused to close her eyes in frustration. Half an hour to make him happy.

Maybe twenty-seven minutes at this point.

“Watch.” He hefted the ball, much like in a volleyball serve, and floated it toward the goal, swishing the net all over again. The light breeze carried that warmth-and-faded-Chanel scent over her, tickling her nostrils. It would be stronger just beneath his jaw, a hint of stubble abrading the tip of her nose when she sniffed him, his arms about her. “Try again.”

He placed the ball in her hand. She slanted a glare at him, approximating his heft. “You have years of practice.”

“I don’t get why you don’t.” He rested his hands at his hips while she shot and missed again. The ball wobbled into the hedges. “It’s a Woodfield staple from like age seven.”

She cast a pointed glance across the street at her childhood home and back at him. Her home life had not always engendered time in sports. And age seven had been particularly brutal.

“Right.” He dipped his chin in a sharp nod, mouth a contrite line. “Got it.”

“You realize how competitive Woodfield is.” She retrieved the ball and tossed it to him, as she would a volleyball. At least she knew how to do that. “When I didn’t have the basics, I simply avoided it as often as I could.”

He made another goal. “I’m sorry.”

Lifting one shoulder, she watched his easy retrieval under the net. “It’s no great loss.”

“I disagree.” He stood, ball balanced on his hip, brows drawn together. “I don’t know why I didn’t make that connection.”

“When I was demonstrating my total lack of skills . . .” She managed to catch the bounce pass he directed at her. She rotated the ball into a lift, the rubber rough on her palm, heavier than a volleyball. At least this throw made it closer to the backboard. “ . . . you didn’t have the full picture of my childhood. Later, it didn’t matter.”

“Everything about you matters.” He executed a flawless jump shot, and this time she rolled her eyes. Sometimes, she really wanted to smother him, especially when he made something excruciatingly difficult for her look easy. “You’re the most important facet of my life.”

She smiled at that, recognizing the truth because as much as she adored their children, he was the most important piece of her own existence.

Her next attempt went wildly awry, and he laughed, running to grab the ball before it crossed the street. Good humor lit his face as he loped back, dribbling with a skill that set her teeth on edge. “You are really bad at this.”

She shook her head while he made a layup and caught the ball under the net. “I am.”

“Are you hating this?” He balanced the ball at his hip again.

Oddly enough, even though she hadn’t managed to get anywhere near the goal, she wasn’t. Clearly, basketball would never be her thing, so there was no pressure to succeed or even improve here.

With a half-smile, she shook her head. “No.”

“All right, then.” He bounced the ball in her direction. “Let’s play.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I’m Kissing You

“Pick one.” Tick rested a forearm on the island, cupped hand holding four folded slips before her.

On a sip of water, Caitlin set her goblet aside and studied the tiny hidden options. As far as ideas went, this wasn’t the worst he’d ever had. Last night’s entertainment had been volleyball, and they’d played far past dark, a competitive matchup filled with teasing and laughter. She’d fallen asleep, not worrying about why she didn't want to turn into him, but entertaining a whimsical pondering of what he’d written on three of the four slips remaining.

Instead of obsessing about her lack of libido during the quiet of her day, she had recent memories of fun with him — what Gene called remembering why she liked him. Her lips twisted. His grandfather was indeed a wise man.

Aware of his amused gaze on her face, she plucked a piece free and unfolded it.

Swimming

“Heck, yeah. It’s been hot as hell today.” He grinned. “That is an amazing idea tonight.”