She made her way downstairs to wait for him on the front porch. If they’d been a real couple, she could have sat on the bed and watched him get dressed. And what a glorious sight that would have been. With a sigh of regret, she gazed toward the overgrown pasture. By this time next year, horses would be grazing there, and she wouldn’t be around to see them.

He was ready in record time, but as he came out on the porch, she spotted a filmy lavender top dangling from his fingers. He passed the garment from one hand to the other, not saying a word, letting it speak for itself. The late afternoon sun caught a sprinkle of tiny silver beads, like bubbles in a froth of lavender sea. The fabric swayed from his fingers like a hypnotist’s watch.

“The thing is,” he finally said, “you probably don’t have the right bra. I’ve seen girls in clubs with tops like this, and they wear a bra with lacy straps. Maybe a contrasting color. I’m thinkin’ pink would be nice.” He shook his head. “Aw, heck, I’ve embarrassed us both.” Not looking the slightest bit embarrassed, he dangled the lavender confection a few inches closer. “I tried to buy you something with spikes and leather, but, I swear, if there’s an S&M shop around here, I sure as hell couldn’t find it.”

She’d entered the Garden of Eden, except this time Adam was holding the treacherous apple. “Go away.”

“If you’re afraid to claim your womanhood, I understand.”

She was tired, hungry, and feeling more than a little sorry for herself or she wouldn’t have let him bait her. “Fine!” She grabbed the lavender temptation. “But you gave up a Y chromosome to do this!”

When she got upstairs, she whipped off her muscle shirt and pulled Satan’s garment over her head. A ruffle fell softly at the hem, where it brushed the waistband of her jeans. Delicate ribbon ties curled over her shoulders. Her bra straps showed; he’d been right about that. Of course, he’d been right. He was an expert on women’s undergarments. Fortunately, her own bra was pale blue, and although the straps weren’t lace, they weren’t white either, which even she knew would have been an unforgivable fashion faux pas to Mr. Vogue Magazine downstairs.

“There’s a skirt in one of those sacks,” he called up the stairs, “just in case you’re interested in getting rid of those jeans.”

Ignoring him, she kicked off her sandals, pulled on her scuffed black biker boots, and headed downstairs.

“That’s just juvenile,” he said as he took in her footwear.

“Are you ready to go or not?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman more afraid of being female. When you see that shrink—”