She was a flower in the sun, water on a hot pan, that first gasp of breath after a second too long underwater. He held her firmly pinned between the wall and the broad line of his body. When his tongue swept against hers, Cat knew this was the kind of kiss she’d feel for days, weeks. This kiss was going to have aftershocks.

“Holy smokes,” she gasped, rolling her face to the side to take a gulp of much-needed air.

“Yeah,” he half laughed, half panted. “Holy smokes.”

She narrowed her eyes and brushed her nose against his. “You’re going to leave a mark, aren’t you?”

“We can only hope,” he said. And kissed her again.

Epilogue

Ten years later

QUENTIN JUMPED TO the side to avoid the chattering herd of elementary schoolers that careened through the hall to make it to class before the first bell. It was the first day back from summer vacation and he had to smile at the joyous, puppy-like reunions taking place left and right.

He weaved through the hallway until he stood outside Cat’s classroom, the same one he’d helped her move into a few years ago.

A dad and his son blocked the doorway as the kid poked his head around the doorjamb.

“She’s not here yet,” the kid hissed to his dad, something akin to panic in his eyes.

“Matty, she’s gonna be here. I promise. We checked the class listings. You’re both in Ms. Foster’s class.”

Hearing that, a little electric zing of energy zipped through Quentin from his feet to his ears. Every once in a while—even after all this time—it just really got him, that Cat shared his last name. He’d never expected her to give up her name. LaFievre. He’d been thrilled and honored when she’d decided to hyphenate after they got married. She went by Ms. Foster in the classroom, and at first she’d told him it was because it was easier for the kids to remember. But a few years ago she’d confessed that she liked hearing his last name over and over all day. That every time she got called Ms. Foster, she thought of him.

“Joy!” the little boy called as a girl with two long black braids came scampering up to the doorway.

“Hi, Matty!”

The little boy took her by the hand and tugged her into the classroom, all first-day fears apparently promptly forgotten.

“Oh, thank God,” the dad muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That was a near-death experience.”

Quentin chuckled and caught the dad’s eye. “You were worried? You seemed so calm.”

“Seemed being the operative word there. I find parenting to be, like, ninety percent bluster. But if Joy had been switched to another class... Man, I am not above bribing somebody.”

Quentin laughed and held out his hand. “Quentin.”

“Sebastian.” They shook hands. “Which one’s yours?”

“The one with the long curly hair and the big silver earrings.”

Sebastian squinted into the classroom and then his face broke into a smile. “You’re Ms. Foster’s husband?”