“She’s probably not your thing,” I say, embarrassed to be caught devouring so many romance novels. Shannon flashes through my head with her “guilty pleasures is a stupid concept” mantra, and I sit a little straighter. “But she’s my favorite romance author. She has a new book coming out in September and I’m rereading everything of hers before it comes out.”

“Can I see?” She motions for me to move over in the hammock and I do, aware of every single micro-inch of her bronze skin brushing mine. I hand over the book, refusing to cringe at the hot-pink cover, and she accepts it with a hint of a wicked grin. “Wait, this is a boring scene in an office. Where’s the good stuff?”

“You know romance novels have actual plots, right?” I say dryly. “The characters do real things and have brains and stuff?”

“Oh, I’m teasing. But not about the good stuff.” She keeps a finger where I left off and flips through the rest until she finds something to her satisfaction. “Ah, here we go.

“‘If this is what yardwork does to your body, I need to shake some more leaves from my tree,’ said Zoe, sliding a perfectly manicured red fingernail down the line bisecting Drew’s pecs and following it with her lips.

“‘Baby,’ Drew breathed, ‘I’ll be happy to shake it all for you.’ He lifted her in his strong arms and pressed his mouth to hers, inhaling her like the spicy scent of wood smoke on a crisp autumn morning. But his lips weren’t content simply to taste her mouth. He rolled her so she was beneath him and left kisses all over her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders, that magnificent collarbone, and the velvety soft pillows of her breasts.” Jasmine hands the book back. “You really like that stuff?”