He parked the car and set the garage alarm, then headed for the house. It was dark, the only light the one he’d left on over the kitchen sink. He let himself in, noting that the alarm was off. He reset it with a grim shake of his head for his negligent houseguest, then walked through the dimly lit kitchen and dining room into the living room.

There was a garbage bag—full, by the looks of it—at the end of his large sectional sofa. Two suitcases sat on one side, a plastic tote and one large cardboard box flanked the other. And sprawled on the couch, fast asleep, was Olivia.

She was curled under the blanket he kept stored in the ottoman, a huge quilt his oldest sister had made for him. One side was flannel, and the other was made up of the pockets from dozens of pairs of jeans. It was ugly as homemade sin, and the denim made it heavy—it was a running family joke that Claudia had invented weighted blankets by mistake.

He’d have gotten rid of it years ago, but his mother would kill him. So he stored it in the ottoman, easily accessible for when his mother visited or the heat went out in January.

Or, he amended mentally, if Olivia came over and didn’t have the code to adjust the thermostat.

She was curled in the corner of the sectional, the quilt tucked under her chin as she slept. Her honey-blonde hair was in a messy pile on top of her head, leaving her face unframed. She looked innocent in sleep, with her round cheeks flushed pink and her thick eyelashes forming shadows on her soft skin. Her mouth, however, shattered any illusion of innocence.

It had been nearly two years since they’d played together, and still, he could recall every detail of how it had felt to look down and see that plush mouth wrapped around him, streaks of dark pink lipstick clinging to his skin, struggling to swallow him while her big hazel eyes filled with tears.

Her mouth was naked now, her lips soft and slightly parted. Her whole face was bare of cosmetics, her skin pale but for the faint flush on her cheeks. It made her seem younger than her thirty-three years, and added to the air of vulnerability that clung to her like smoke. And, as he was a man who found vulnerability almost irresistible, contributed to the sudden uncomfortable fit of his slacks.