She’s laughing. Why is she laughing? Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she was dropping little kisses amid her laughter, on his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks, his forehead, his ears.

“You are”—kiss—“so damned adorable . . .” Kiss. “It kills me.” Kiss. She was still laughing. “Oh God . . .” Kiss. “I love you so much . . .” Kiss . . . kiss . . . kiss.

Mick froze midstep. She just said she loves me. But wait. She said, “Oh God, I love you so much.” Was she talking about God? To God? Must be. Love and Mick Talford was a contradiction in terms. There was the Hollywood “love you, baby,” which meant jack dick, but love-love. Nah. Mick was an unlovable bastard, and he knew it. Never had it in his life and probably never would. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. What matters is now, and I am going to make love to this woman if it’s the last thing I do. She didn’t say no. And she’s kissing me, so I’m going to take that as a hard yes on the engagement thing. “So, we’re all squared up? Good to go.” She was still laughing, wiping moisture from the corner of her eyes, which had gone all soft and doe-like.

“Oh, Mick . . .” She took his face in her hands and kissed him long and deep. Pulled back and looked at him with this indescribable expression on her face that made him feel comfy and warm inside. “You.” He waited for more words, but they didn’t come. She just traced his lower lip with her thumb. He started moving again, toward the bedroom. “What I meant was,” she said, still dropping tender little kisses on him, “the I-have-a-clean-bill-of-health-and-no-sexually-transmitted-diseases talk.”