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“All right.”
He glanced back as Brian came out.
“Have a fine day, Breen.”
“The same to you, Brian.”
“An hour before sunset,” Keegan repeated. “Don’t be late.”
He started across the grass to the woods, then stopped, strode back to her.
She thought he looked just a little on the fierce side as he wrapped one arm around her, pulled her to him, and kissed her.
“Don’t be late,” he said again, and left her.
Breen just smiled into her coffee and watched the day bloom.
It felt good, ridiculously good to work up a sweat with her workout routine. And maybe, just maybe, she preened some examining the sharper cut of her triceps. She might not reach pro level with sword or bow but, by God, the unrelenting practice had some personal benefits.
And the shower after? Sheer heaven.
She dressed for the day, then armed with a Coke, settled in her office. After booting up her laptop, she took a breath, then glanced back at Bollocks, who’d settled himself on the bed.
“Your turn,” she told him.
She’d barely touched on the next Bollocks story since the battle. Simply hadn’t had the heart for it.
But now, home, the dog on the bed, the cottage all around her, she slid right in. And found the joy.
When she surfaced, she’d lost all track of time. Bollocks no longer curled on the bed, and the scent of something glorious reached her.
She went out, saw Marco had his own laptop set on the table where he worked. He stood at the stove, one he obviously didn’t find complicated, adding some white wine to a big pot.
“What is that amazing smell?”
“Hey, girl! You were in deep. Bollocks just went out again. Did you get something to eat? I came down about nine, and you were solid in the zone. Looks like you stayed there.”
“I did. I really did. I told you I could work on the adult novel at the Capital, but I just couldn’t pull into Bollocks’s next adventure.”
She swung to the refrigerator for another Coke—a personal reward. “And today, bam! God, it was so much fun!” She did a little twirl. “Just pumping out like it all needed a switch to flip. I guess it did.”
“Glad to hear that, even if it tells me you didn’t eat. I’m going to make you a sandwich.”
“I can make my own sandwich, but why can’t I have whatever’s in that pot? What’s in that pot? It smells like I feel, which is fantastic.”
“You can’t have it, ’cause it needs to simmer here. You’re going to do that woo thing and keep it like I want it after we go over. We’re going over, right?”
“Yeah, sure, but— What time is it?” Her mouth dropped open when she saw the clock on the stove. “Crap, I should’ve shut down a half hour ago. I need to go!”
“We’ll get there. Do the thing, and I’ll put a sandwich together you can eat on the way.”
“What am I doing the thing for?”
“I came on all French this morning,” Marco said as he sliced bread. “So par-lay voo, I made a couple of baguettes, and got us chicken en cocotte going.”
“What’s chicken en cocotte?” She lifted the lid. Inside she saw plump pieces of chicken, delicately browned, hunks of potatoes, carrots, celery, onion.
The scent—she could only think: Orgasmic.
