But he’s right—we should savor it. Besides, I spent years with a man who took whatever he could get from me. Last night, once again, proves Grady is refreshingly, adorably different.

Also different… Grady’s kiss. I’ve never been kissed like that—a weird realization because one would think that, by and large, all kisses are created relatively equal. Lips plus touching equal nerve endings properly engaged, and temperatures rising. But his kiss brought on a raging inferno. His delicious intensity, pulsing through him and onto me, created a blazing ecosystem between us. Hot, wet, lush, and sweetly contained, just for me. A greenhouse effect. A Grady effect.

I get hot just thinking about it.

So, it’s no surprise that when he arrives at three o’clock on the dot, I’m out of the door and into his arms before he has a chance to knock. He laughs as he reciprocates, wrapping his big arms around me, lifting me, and easing me inside. He slams the door shut behind us while I ravish him with wild kisses.

“I’ve been dying to see you,” he breathes between my lips.

“Not as much as me,” I giggle, finding my feet again. “I can’t wait to savor Romantic Grady on this date. Where are we going?”

“I forget,” he says, making me laugh. He tugs a bag of cat treats from the inside pocket of his jacket. “In lieu of flowers.”

Giggling, I shake the bag, and the cats twirl between our legs. We fill them up on treats and pets until Grady rises, reaching out to help me up.

“You look amazing,” he says, eyeing my olive green dress—a vintage score with a deep V-neck and cute little buttons down the front. I call it friendly casual.

“So do you,” I say, grabbing my purse and jacket from the kitchen table. His dark gray jeans and black jacket are offset by an olive green t-shirt that almost matches my dress. We are adorably date-ready.

Ten miles into our excursion, Grady’s phone chimes repeatedly.

He removes it from his inner pocket and mumbles a curse. “I have to make a call.”

“Okay.”

During the short conversation, Grady mostly listens. When he hangs up, he drops the phone on the seat between us and runs a hand over his head.

“Dad needs me at the farm. His horse, Buck Rogers, got spooked and rammed against a shovel hanging on the wall. He’s got a gaping wound. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll drive you home. Can we resume this later?”

“No, take me with you. Maybe I can help.”

“Marina, my job isn’t pleasant,” he says, fisting the steering wheel. “You don’t want to see that.”

“I can handle it. I want to stay with you.”

He looks surprised. “Okay. But I won’t fault you if you stay in the truck.”