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“ENM?” I repeat faintly.
“Ethical non-monogamy, they call it,” Dot tuts. “In my day, we just called it free love, but I suppose your generation likes to put a label on everything. You have to set your match distance wide enough,” she adds helpfully. “But it’s worth a little trip. I like to go to Raleigh for the weekend, do some antiquing, book a nice B&B, and then meet some new friends. You should try it sometime if this director fellow doesn’t work out.”
The mind boggles. I always knew Dot was hiding a few secrets under her baggy cardigans, but torrid group sex weekends at the area B&Bs?
“Umm, thanks!” I say brightly. “Where’s our citric acid and iodine solution?”
“Should be in the back cabinet,” Dot replies, taking another bite of brownie.
“Great!”
I hurry away. Is every person over 50 in Milford Falls engaged in hot and wild sexual adventures? Apparently so. I shake my head, smiling. Honestly, good for Dot.
And good for me, too…
I collect my supplies,and walk home. Sure enough, my car is parked safely back in the driveway, but there’s no sign of Reeve around, so I take the chance to dive in the shower and rinse the day off me. And shave my legs. And moisturize. And, OK, make sure everything is trimmed and good to go elsewhere, just in case the scent of preservation chemicals is so intoxicating he can’t help but rip my clothes off and take me right there on the floor.
A girl needs to be prepared, after all.
I pick out good lingerie, and then promptly cover it up in my slouchiest sweats and a tank top, before heading downstairs to the office space that I’ve converted into my nerdy historian heaven, complete with a sink for chemical baths, and drying line.
I carefully pull the metal box out of my bag, and set it on the work counter.
It shines temptingly, full of… who knows what?
Reeve told me not to open the box without him, but he didn’t say anything about getting it prepped to be opened, so I mix up a citric acid solution, and start dabbing at the rusted edges with a cotton swab to deal with the rust. It comes away easily, and I’m fighting the urge to crack it open – just for a little peek – when the doorbell sounds.
“Finally!” I exclaim, when I go fling it open. Reeve is on my doorstep with his arms full of takeout bags. “You’re serious testing my self-control.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“About the treasure box,” I add, flushing.
“Is that what you’re calling it now?” Reeve quips, following me into the house.
I laugh, helping him set down the bags in the kitchen. “What is all this stuff? Was the diner going out of business?”
“I didn’t know your favorite, so I’m playing it safe with … everything.” Reeve grins. He’s changed clothes, too, into grey sweatpants and another soft sweater; his hair damp from the shower and falling irresistibly into his eyes.
On impulse, I lean up and kiss him, slow and sweet andright.
Reeve slides his hands around my waist and pulls me closer, deepening the kiss and making my head spin. “Hello,” he says softly, coming up for air.
“Hi,” I murmur back. I stay there a moment, just holding him, feeling warm and safe in the circle of his embrace.
Warm, safe, and impossibly horny.
I break away. In the war between desire and curiosity over that treasure hunt, curiosity wins.
“I just got the rust off,” I tell him, leading Reeve into my studio.
“And you waited for me? I’m touched,” he grins.
“Well, it’s like you said, it’s a group project now.”
Reeve looks around the room, taking in the overflowing bookcases and framed prints; my antique coin collection, and the homemade model airplane I found on a dig years ago, and couldn’t bring myself to leave behind. “It’s a mess, I know,” I find myself apologizing, but he shakes his head.
“Are you kidding? I love it. I can tell, everything’s got a story.”
