“Here you go.” My mug thumps down on the scrubbed kitchen table. I blink at it stupidly, and Gwen’s bright light stutters just like that. She hovers over me, suddenly anxious. “Is that not how you like it? I could make you another one. Or, um, I could brew coffee—”

“It’s good.” I lift the mug, holding her gaze as I take a sip. Hot fluid fills my mouth and runs down the back of my throat in a perfect burn. I’m not faking it when I let out a pleased sigh. “Thank you.”

That smile. That sweet, nervous smile.

Without thinking, I tug Gwen Roberts back down onto my lap. Back where she belongs. Tea sloshes over the rim of her own mug, splattering against my gray shirt, and she puts it down quickly at a safe distance on the table.

“Sorry! Oh gosh, sorry.”

Even when it’s my fault, she apologizes. That won’t do.

Gwen quivers as I drag the tip of my nose along her shoulder, inhaling her warm morning scent. She smells like daisy meadows and blackberry bushes. Hazelnuts and laundry powder, and her weight is so perfect in my lap, I almost can’t stand it.

“Why are you sorry, cariad?” I cage her in my arms. “I’m the one who pulled you down.”

A blush starts at the base of her throat. Climbs slowly up towards her cheeks, and still I keep smelling her. Breathing her in like she’s the oxygen I need. “And you got splashed for your trouble.”

“Serves me right.”

“No it doesn’t.” Gwen tilts her head to the side, humming dreamily as I tuck an escaped blonde lock of hair behind her ear, the rest piled on her head in a magnificent mess. “Oh, I love it when you touch me, Rhys Evans.”

“That’s good.” My heart’s pounding so loud that surely she can hear it. Surely. “Because I love touching you. I’ve got work to finish today, but now all I want to do is sit here with you and slip my hands under your clothes.”

“Do it.” Gwen’s gripping the edge of the table, white knuckled. She’s balanced on my thigh, her feet tangling around my calves. “Oh my god, do it.”

My cheeks lift in a rare grin, my face aching from smiling so much in the last twenty four hours. I’m not used to this, damn it.

“I can’t. Later, maybe.”

Gwen’s groan is low and ragged. “You are a tease, Rhys Evans.”

Am I? I’ve certainly never acted like this before. I’ve never been playful or lighthearted; I’ve never been so hungry for someone that it’s a physical ache. But in the safe recesses of my brain, I can admit what I won’t say out loud: that I’m not teasing this girl. I just know the sooner we start this, the sooner it will be over.

Pretty young women like Gwen Roberts don’t settle down with big old brutes like me. They just don’t. They might scratch an itch with us, might satisfy their curiosity, but it’s young lads like the Thomas boy who get the girl in the end.