Because I didn’t fully trust my motives either—sure, Sylvia was funny and sweet, she was a great listener, and I loved making her laugh, but I wasn’t up all night imagining jokes I could tell her.

I was up thinking about all the things I wanted to do to her.

Delicious things.

Dirty things.

Things that a woman like Sylvia—classy and refined Sylvia—had probably never even imagined.

Was I just too hard up for sex to see straight? Maybe this whole thing was one-sided, and I’d earn myself a great big kick in the nuts if I tried something with her.

But I could think of nothing I’d like more for Christmas than to make her come while she screamed my name.

I moaned as I pulled my truck into a parking space at the gym, my cock rock hard in my pants. Now I’d have to sit here until it went away, and who knew how long that would take?

I forced myself to think of unsexy things. Mold on the vines. Insects. Hormone tracking devices measuring peak fertile days. When I was positive I could walk in without embarrassing myself, I got out of the truck.

I needed to fucking sweat.

* * *

“Henry! You made it!”

Later that evening, Daphne Sawyer kissed my cheek and took my coat. Her husband shook my hand, clapping me on the back. “I hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

“Not too bad. Looks great in here.” The lobby of the inn looked like an old Hollywood Christmas movie set—fire blazing in the huge stone fireplace, a massive evergreen in the corner decked out with so many lights and ornaments you could hardly see the branches, a hundred or so well-dressed people sitting in groups on the lobby couches and chairs, or standing in clusters near the tree, all holding a drink of some sort or balancing a plate of food on one hand.

“Thank you, darling.” Daphne patted my lapel. “You look wonderful. Go get yourself a drink. Bar’s open.”

I was heading in that direction when I spotted Sylvia.

My knees went weak. She wore a deep red strapless dress that clung to her curves like an apple skin. The front of her hair was pulled back off her face, and the rest fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Her lips were painted to match her dress. Normally, I didn’t like a lot of makeup, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her mouth from across the room. God, the things I wanted to do to that mouth.

Whiskey. Whiskey would help.