“Hey, Rachel?” he says, when we’re parked in my driveway. “Can I ask you a question?”

I nod.

“I had an idea. But I don’t know if it’ll work.”

“Shoot.”

“This thing we’re doing, the partnership, with you selling on the boat. Do you think we could do it with other things, too? Like, I don’t know, the book store? Or people who make jewelry or crafts? They could bring their stuff on board, and you could host, like you do?”

“I think it’s brilliant.”

Brody’s smile starts with his dimple, then the corner of his mouth, then escalates into something even more dangerous than his kisses.

“I’ve been thinking about going into town, asking some of the businesses to partner with me. Like, maybe tomorrow? Any interest in coming with?”

Brody’s super cute when he’s like this. Excited and a little shy. Eager to please. Like a kid who isn’t used to getting things right.

It’s a different side of him from the broody badass, and I totally dig it.

“I’d love that,” I tell him, and get another smile.

And another kiss, long and slow and sweet.

It turns dark and needy almost instantly. He cups my head and pulls back. “Rachel,” he growls. “Did you do that on purpose? On the boat? Make me think about you with the ben wa balls inside you?”

I smile.

“You are not a good girl,” he grits out.

“No,” I agree, deeply pleased that he knows it.

“I’m going to spend a lot of time thinking about that between today and tomorrow,” he says.

Then he kisses me again. Fiercely. And it’s so good.

I float up to the house.

14

Rachel

The next morning—after I sleep too late and bolt down breakfast—Brody pulls into the driveway.

I hurry to the truck and launch myself up into the passenger seat beside him.

Then I die of how good he looks and smells. Like, fresh from the shower, reeking of Irish Spring and Old Spice good. Torn jeans with already-strained denim pulled tight over his quads. And yet another second-skin t-shirt, this one proclaiming, “Real Men Fish.”

You’d get more or less the same effect without the text.

He leans over and molds his mouth to mine, and I go from normal woman to melted puddle of need in three seconds flat.

He pulls back and eyes me. I’m breathing hard.

“Ready?” he asks, a flash of green eyes and something that I’m pretty sure is a smirk.

Brody, smirking. This is actually a thing.

This is a very, very good thing.

“Ready,” I say.

Or as ready as anyone can ever be for Brody Wilder.