“C'mon Buffy,” groused Bill. “Get down.”

Gingerly, and without her husband's assistance, Buffy descended the table. “It’s a good thing you’re honest,” she told him. “Because, if you ever get arrested, you can rot in a tiny cell. Don’t call me for bail.”

Chapter Three

There was no coffee. No. Coffee. No grounds. No beans. Nothing.

How had I missed the lack of a coffeemaker in the cabin's tiny kitchen? No sunny yellow gingham face. No sparkling pot. No gurgle of bliss.

How could someone assign me a cabin without the means to brew my morning necessity?

With barely contained annoyance, I jammed my feet into my boots and stepped outside.

The morning, barely dawned, was still cool and the scent of fresh-cut hay perfumed the air, a smell almost as delectable as fresh-brewed coffee.

“Hold on.” Anarchy joined me on the cabin’s front deck. He wore low-slung pajama bottoms and nothing else. “I want a kiss before you go.”

“Coffee.” I would not be seduced.

He caught my waist and pulled me close. “You need a reason to hurry back.”

“Coffee.”

“A kiss first.”

It wasn’t as if kissing my husband was a chore. When my arms wrapped around his neck, and our lips met. I forgot coffee. And the passage of time. And my name.

We separated, and I sighed.

His lips brushed against my ear. “Ten minutes, Ellison.”

“What?”

“Coffee or no coffee, you’re back in bed in ten minutes.”

Who was I to argue? “Deal.” I glanced at my watch and hesitated. Five-fifty. What kind of crazy left their new husband for coffee? But…coffee.

The gravel on the path to the club's main building crunched beneath my soles. Surely at the clubhouse there would be—please, God—fresh-brewed coffee. I paused and glanced over my shoulder.

Anarchy leaned against the cabin’s door frame with his arms crossed over his muscled chest. He caught me looking and offered a naughty grin.

Who needed coffee?

I did. And I needed it badly.

Despite Libba’s smirking assertion that newlyweds didn’t sleep, I required at least six hours of shut-eye each night. The deafening roar of the air-conditioner had ensured I got considerably less than that. Well, the AC and Anarchy.

Coffee.

Only its siren song was strong enough to lure me away from my husband and his sleep-mussed hair and his eyes that glowed with promise.

I hurried my steps. The sooner I got coffee, the sooner I could return to Anarchy, whose bedroom eyes signaled he’d decided to forego fishing for other more pleasurable pursuits.

I pushed open the clubhouse door, spotted a coffee urn, and moaned my appreciation.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jones.” Misty offered me a tired smile.

“Good morning.” I nodded at the urn. “And bless you.”

“I can’t function without coffee.” Misty was a woman after my own heart.