She’d all but written the script, she thought with a grimace, and he hadn’t followed it. This morning was supposed to begin the next phase of their lives. She’d imagined running over to Julie’s and sharing the joy of it, of calling Anna and babbling, begging for wedding advice.

Of telling her mother.

Of explaining it all to Aubrey.

Instead, it was a quiet morning.

After a beautiful night, she scolded herself. A lovely night. She had no business complaining about it. Annoyed with herself, she went back inside to pour the first cup of freshly brewed coffee.

Then she began to chuckle. What had she been thinking of? This was Ethan Quinn she was dealing with. Wasn’t this the same man who’d waited—by his own admission— nearly a decade to so much as kiss her? At the rate he took things, it could be another one before he brought up the subject of marriage.

The only reason they’d moved from that first kiss to where they stood now was because she . . . well, she’d thrown herself at him, Grace admitted. Plain and simple. And she wouldn’t have had the guts to do that if Anna hadn’t shoved her along.

Flowers, she thought, turning so that she could smile at them, bright and pretty on her kitchen counter. Candlelight dinner, moonlit walks, and long, tender lovemaking. Yes, he was courting her—and would likely continue to do so until she went mad waiting for him to take the next step.

But that was Ethan, she admitted, and just one of the things she adored about him.

She sipped coffee, bit her lip. Why did he have to take the step? Why shouldn’t she be the one to move things along? Julie had told her men liked it when a woman took the initiative. And hadn’t Ethan liked it when she finally worked up the courage to ask him to make love with her?

She could do some courting herself, couldn’t she? And she could move it along at a faster pace. God knew she was an expert at getting things done on schedule.

It would only take the courage to ask him. She blew out a breath. She’d have to find that, but she would dig inside herself until she did.

TEMPERATURES SOARED, and the humidity thickened in a syrupy morass that Cam not so cheerfully dubbed ‘‘fumidity.’’ He workedbelowdecks, trimming out the cabin until the heat sent him topside desperate for fluids and one stingy breeze.

Though he rarely complained about the working conditions, Ethan was—like Cam—stripped to the waist. Sweat poured as he patiently varnished.

‘‘That’s going to take a week to dry, it’s so goddamn damp.’’

‘‘Decent storm might blow some of it out.’’

‘‘Then I wish to Christ we’d have one.’’ Cam grabbed up the jug and glugged water straight from the lip.