He pursed his lips, which, by the way, were nice and full and highly kissable. Let me state for the record that Sinclair Palmer is a bona fide hottie. He falls into that elusive sweet spot between handsome and cute, with cocoa-brown skin, high, rounded cheekbones, an infectious smile, and Tour de France–worthy thighs. “Honestly? I thought I’d let them get to know you before I sprang it on them, Daisy,” he said in a serious tone, dropping the accent. “Do you blame me?”

“Nooo . . .” I admitted. “Not really.”

“So come over.” He gave me another squeeze, his smile returning. “Ain’t no big thing, girl! We’ll put some steaks on the grill, drink a few beers.” He paused. “Maybe you could spend the night?”

A jolt of desire ran through me, and beneath my short skirt, my tail twitched in an involuntary spasm.

Uh, yeah. That was the little something I hadn’t mentioned to Sinclair yet. It has a tendency to freak guys out.

“You’re sure about that?” I asked him.

Sinclair regarded me. “You think I’m ashamed of you?” He shook his head, his short dreadlocks rustling. “I’m not. We don’t have to do anything, Daisy. Look, I’m not saying it’s time to get it on. Not tonight, not with the Mamma Jammers crashing on my living-room floor. That’s not what this is about.” His gaze was steady and unflinching. “I just want you to know I want you there. And I want them to know it, too.”

My stomach did a somersault. “I, um . . . didn’t pack a toothbrush.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Pretty weak. Is that all you’ve got?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

The Mamma Jammers launched into another song, which sounded pretty much exactly like every other song they’d played. This would be their last number, since Union Pier closed at sunset. On the far side of the river, the sun was sinking below the tree line, gilding the rippling water. After a day on the big lake, sailboats and other pleasure boats were easing upriver, making their way back to the marinas for the night. I watched a pair of tourists on Jet Skis play a complex game of tag, carving up the surface of the river, their vehicles tossing up rooster tails of water. Although I hated Jet Skis on principle, I had to admit it did look like fun.

“I’ll make you pancakes in the morning,” Sinclair murmured in my ear. “I make a mean pancake.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” He sounded amused. “And I’ll even let you use my toothbrush, too.”

It was at that exact freaking moment, when I was feeling good and happy and sexy and melty and excited and wanted and trepidatious and a bazillion other things, most of them nice, that my phone rang.

I fished it out of my bag. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

“Work?” Sinclair asked.

“Looks like it.”