Bandit angles his mouth until it fits against mine like adjoining pieces of a puzzle. His lips caress mine with infinite care. He tastes good. Really good. Like cinnamon toothpaste. I’ll have to ask him what brand he uses.

He moves his hand to either side of my face, and my heart swells to twice its normal size. So full that it might burst.

He makes me feel…cherished.

And that’s a feeling I’d travel to the end of time to find, over and over again.

Minutes or hours later, Bandit eases back and snuggles me against his chest. No pillow has ever cradled me so comfortably. No blanket has ever made me feel safer. I would gladly stay here until the sun sinks behind the trees, enveloping us with the night, but a particularly strong breeze buffets us, reminding me of where we are…and what I was supposed to do.

“I think I’ll be able to face the disaster inside now,” Bandit says.

“If a mess was all it took for you to kiss me, maybe I should lose our broom,” I tease.

His lips twitch. “I could forget to put away the dishes after they’re cleaned.”

I raise my eyebrow. Is that the best he can do? “Don’t shower for a month.”

“Leave rotten fruit on the counter until it’s crawling with ants.” A smile spreads across his face.

Challenge accepted. “Let your baby cousin take off his poopy diaper and smear it on the walls.”

“Oh, man,” he groans. “I’m getting light-headed again.”

Giggling, I pull him into another hug. I like this guy. I really, really do.

He laces his fingers through mine, and for a moment, we just stand there, grinning at each other. “Thank you for being here with me today,” he says.

“Anytime,” I promise. Is that really my voice? Since when did it get so low? So husky?

He kisses me on the cheek, and we head inside, hand in hand. But not before he picks up my backpack—with the gun inside—and slings it over his shoulder.

My heart stutters. He’s just being chivalrous. Right? He didn’t try to carry my bag before, but maybe that’s because I was clutching it so tightly. I shouldn’t overthink it. I won’t overthink it.

Still, anxiety replaces the glow in my stomach as we speed-walk through the living room and into Charlie’s office.

It’s warmer in here, probably from the wood furnace that’s burning in the corner. Less messy, too. Three neat stacks of documents line the top of the massive oak desk, with only a few loose sheets on the floor.

Dropping both my hand and the backpack, Bandit picks up a piece of paper. “The only thing Charlie is meticulous about is his research. He asked me to take home the pile on the right.”