Skimming the paragraph she’d been looking for, Alva allowed herself a brief moment of contentment. Yes, construction on the house had been indefinitely halted. Yes, she was having trouble being in her newly purchased house alone. Yes, she spent more time thinking about Samuel Moore than she wanted to.

Well, that wasn’t really true. If she was honest, she enjoyed every minute she spent thinking about him.

The point was that all sorts of things were wrong, but there were a few things within her control and she had them well in hand.

Like chapter 10, for example. She’d known she’d been right about the dining rooms in French villas.

She’d almost told him everything in the summerhouse. Again. Apparently the slightest bit of sympathy made her want to pour out all her problems—actually, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t sympathy Sam offered. It was safety, and understanding, and vision. He saw her, more than he should.

What would her life have been like if she’d met him first?

It was a treacherous thought. What if she’d met him thirteen years before, at some grand gala of her parents? What if he’d come into the ballroom, broad shoulders clad in an elegant black jacket—

She laughed. That wasn’t right at all. Give Sam five minutes at a fancy party and he’d have his jacket off, his tie askew, and be hip deep in some new brainchild that couldn’t wait a second longer. She didn’t want some pretend Sam, one who would have been acceptable to a callow heiress and her even more callow world. She wanted this Sam, the one of flesh and muscle and blood, the one who held her against him like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to touch and looked at her like she was a sunset and a miracle and the whole advent of electricity balled up into one.

Thinking of him brought heat to her throat and face, making her aware of the thin fabric draped over her body. He had a way of making the complicated simple, or the simple complicated. What she wanted him to do to her was both.

“Stop it,” she told herself. “Can’t even focus on this for five minutes without daydreaming like a … like a—” She couldn’t even complete the sentence.

“Get back to work,” she hissed, and pulled the writing desk back towards her.