“I nailed the clue inside the depot,” she said, “and now I give you permission to admit that I’m a skilled treasure hunter. . . .” The sentence slowed as her focus dropped to his lips. Awareness thickened the air. “And that . . . you were smart to . . . trust me on this.” By the end, her words were little more than breath.

Time spun out. He held himself totally still.

She went up on her tiptoes and gently pressed her mouth to his.

A rushing vacuum sound filled his ears. Sensations—her warmth, her curves, her scent, her softness—poured in. Her hands slid up and came to rest on the back of his neck.

He felt every detail of every single thing, and glaciers fell within him.

She leaned back.

Don’t pull away.

She didn’t. She studied him from just a few inches of distance.

His heart drummed, loyal and fast.

“That was spontaneous,” she said quietly. “I followed an impulse and didn’t . . . necessarily think that through fully. I’m sorry if—”

Luke crushed his mouth to hers. His fingers delved into her hair, registering its silky texture. The rest of the world vanished.

This was the best thing he’d experienced in years. Ever?

Maybe kissing had never been this good before because he’d never kissed Finley before. Never kissed anyone he liked as much as he liked her. Never resisted temptation as long as he’d resisted it with her.

Alarms were blaring inside of him, but he didn’t care. He walked backward with her in his arms until his hips came up against a cage. But when he felt a nose nudge the small of his back, he walked her forward until she bumped her desk chair, which clattered and spun.

She gave a huff of laughter and resumed kissing him. Distantly, he heard the small feminine sound of pleasure she made in her throat.

The kiss increased in urgency. It still wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Closer. She matched him for a time, but eventually put a gap of space between them.

He stared at her, blood pounding hot against his temples.

“So.” She was slightly winded. “That was . . . amazing.”

His hands were still in her hair.

“I’m sure it would be best,” she confessed, “if I could think clearly right now and say something that makes sense. But my head isn’t clear. Yours?”

“No.”

“Come outside with me.”

Reluctantly, he released her. She picked up the envelope and led him through the living room, across her back deck, and to the river.

His body was raging, his thoughts chaos.

She’d positioned outdoor wooden furniture to one side of her property, beneath the shade of an oak. Finley chose a chair facing the water. She gestured for him to take a seat. Instead, he continued to stand, arms crossed.

“You don’t want to sit?” she asked.

“No.”