“Well, then it stands to reason that everything you’re not saying says everything I need to know.”

Grant shook his head, his lips turning up in an irresistible grin that I wanted to kiss. I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. Not in his own home—Robin’s home. With her sitting a few paces away in the living room.

His hand rested on my shoulder, his thumb brushing against my neck. “You’ve lost me.”

The tension between us sizzled as his fingertip lingered too long. One small step forward. I lifted my chin. He was a forbidden gasp away. I felt more than saw him lean down slightly, the air between us thick and heavy. I arched into him, my eyes closing, as if I could magic us into another world where this was okay. Where I wasn’t betraying my best friend, seducing her husband, wrecking a family.

Swept up in selfish desire, I let it happen. Egged it on, even. Teased and invited and welcomed Grant’s passionate lips on mine. I wanted the intrusion.

It was a greedy kiss, as if it could never be enough. Grant’s agile tongue tasted spicy; I fantasized about putting it to good use in certain other places. He grabbed my ass, drawing me against the bulge in his uptight, old-man khakis. He wasn’t my usual type. Too clean-cut, Mr. Preppy. Not a rebel like Tony, tattoos snaking over his skin in tribal glory, ripped jeans, and a Korn T-shirt his standard uniform. And yet I was recklessly attracted to Grant. Maybe I wanted to find out if he was a bad boy wearing choirboy clothes.

I slid my hands through his thick hair, the dark brown waves mingling between my fingers. I pulled back breathlessly, alarmed by a sudden sensation of being watched. I turned, catching a glimpse of a blond phantom disappearing around the doorframe.

“Merda. Did you see that?”

Grant glanced back at the pantry door where my eyes were locked. “No. Why? Was someone there?” His voice cracked.

“I think it was Willow.”

“Did she see us?” he said angrily, and roughly pushed me away.

“I don’t know, Grant! I’m not even sure it was her. It could have been Mackenzie or Aria, for all I know.”

“Should I go talk to Willow?” Grant pressed.

“She’s your kid, not mine. I have no idea what to do. Maybe she didn’t see anything. I mean, what would you even say?”

Grant stalked into the kitchen, pacing feverishly. I followed. “All right, I’ll see if she acts weird at bedtime,” he said. “Maybe I can explain it if she saw us.”

And maybe he couldn’t. Willow was twelve years old, not a little child who’d believe it was normal for her dad to be groping and locking lips with a woman who wasn’t her mom.