I smacked his arm. “I thought the girls would be doing morning breakfast on Sunday, but they all are doing family things.”

“The shame,” he murmured, nipping at my jaw.

I grinned in the darkness. “I thought maybe we could head home Saturday. A day earlier, so we could—”

“So we have some one-on-one time?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “What do you think? You could help me pack the books tomorrow and we can spend a little more time with my parents before heading back.”

“I . . .” His hand slid down my side and over my hip. “ . . . think that is a wonderful idea.”

“I thought you might like that idea.”

His hand slipped to my rear and he squeezed. “Now what gave you that idea?”

“I have no idea.”

* * *

The damp musk of the river was the first thing to greet us when I climbed out of Brock’s car Saturday evening.

On the way home, Brock had asked if I wanted to see his place and we decided I’d stay there. I had another change of clothing for the morning, and I was more than eager to see his home since I hadn’t had the chance yet.

Dusk was settling as Brock grabbed our bags and I picked up Rhage’s carrier. The cat hissed, and I rolled my eyes as I followed Brock up the wide set of stairs leading to a sprawling, bare porch.

“Does it go around the house?” I asked. “The porch?”

“Almost.” He fished out his keys. “It stops at the French doors in the dining room and empties out onto a patio. There’s a second-story deck you can access from the bedrooms upstairs.”

“Wow,” I murmured. His house was about fifteen minutes outside of Shepherdstown, down a dark and windy road that followed the river. All the houses we passed had been huge, so I wasn’t exactly surprised when the massive two-story came into view.

Brock opened the door and somewhere in the house, an alarm beeped. Light turned on, flooding the area. The front door opened into a massive entryway. It was a somewhat open floor plan. I could see all the way back to the kitchen.

He put the bags near the steps that led upstairs and then turned to me. “Remember, the kitchen is a mess.”

“It’s okay.”

“You say that now . . .” Grinning, he walked toward the back of the house, tossing his keys on a foyer table butted up against a wall.

I glanced up, taking in the exposed beams and deciding that the house had a rustic feel to it. Although Brock grew up in the city, the masculine simplicity fit him.