Blush Is Off The Rose Quotes

He grinned. “Busted. I’m a monster. Jev is my deceptively harmless — and shockingly handsome — alter ego.” “And I’m on top of it,” she announced with witty triumph. “Is that a Freudian slip?” His bluntness caught her off guard. A self-conscious blush rose in her face.

Right," Chaol said. "So you're just...memorizing that information now?" "If you're suggesting that I have no reason to be here and to leave, then tell me to go." "I'm just trying to figure out what's so boring that you dozed off 10 minutes ago." She propped herself up onto her elbows. "I did not!" His eyebrows rose. "I heard you snoring." "You're a liar, Chaol Westfall." She threw her paper at him at ploppedback on the couch. "I only closed my eyes for a minute." He shook his head again and went back to work. Celaena blushed. "I didn't really snore, did I?" His face was utterly serious as he said, "Like a bear.

Ryder, we got a problem,” Ristan called from beyond the other side of the etched-glass shower door. “Someone had better be dying, Ristan,” Ryder growled when he'd pulled away from kissing me. “They might be. You need to come see this.” “We will be right there,” Ryder called out as I slid down his hard body. He watched me with a smirk and then placed his hand on my arm to move me from beneath the water, so he could rinse off. I watched him, unable to pull my eyes off of his hands as they roved over his body.He was quicksand, and I was sinking. “Did you say we?” Ristan asked. I blushed from my head to my Paint Your Toron-Toes Rose colored toenails. I opened the shower door and stepped out meeting Ristan's eyes. “Don't ask.” “How the…did you sift into his shower?” he asked, bubbling with laughter. “I said don't ask! It wasn't my fault. I was sleeping!” I shouted as both men laughed even harder. “Real mature, just real fucking mature!

His daughters watched in the rain. The prettiest, shyest one hid far back in the field to watch and she had good reason because she was absolutely the most beautiful girl Dean and I ever saw in all our lives. She was about sixteen, and had Plains complexion like wild roses, and the bluest eyes, the most lovely hair, and the modesty and quickness of a wild antelope. At every look from us she flinched. She stood there with the immense winds that blew clear down from Saskatchewan knocking her hair about her lovely head like shrouds, living curls of them. She blushed and blushed... 'Oh a girl like that scares me,' I said. 'I'd give up everything and throw myself on her mercy and if she didn't want me I'd just as simply go and throw myself off the edge of the world'.

I can snap open corsets faster than bones." He held his knife up, his attention fixed on my chest. "Interested in a demonstration, fancy lady? Say the word and I'll show you what else I can do with such a fine figure." Liza stiffened beside me. People often called women of supposedly questionable morals "fancy ladies." If he thought I'd blush and run off, he was sorely mistaken. "Unfortunately, sir, I find I'm not terribly impressed." I casually slipped a scalpel from my wristlet clutch, enjoying the familiar feel of it. "You see, I also eviscerate bodies. But I don't bother with animals. I butcher humans. Would you care for a demonstration?

A morning-flowered dalliance demured and dulcet-sweet with ebullience and efflorescence admiring, cozy cottages and elixirs of eloquence lie waiting at our feet - We'll dance through fetching pleasantries as we walk ephemeral roads evocative epiphanies ethereal, though we know our hearts are linked with gossamer halcyon our day a harbinger of pretty things infused with whispers longing still and gamboling in sultry ways to feelings, all ineffable screaming with insouciance masking labyrinthine paths where, in our nonchalance, we walk through the lilt of love’s new morning rays. Mellifluous murmurings from a babbling brook that soothes our heated passion-songs and panoplies perplexed with thought of shadows carried off with clouds in stormy summer rains… My dear, and that I can call you 'dear' after ripples turned to crashing waves after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained we find our palace sunned and rayed with quintessential moments lit with wildflower lanterns arrayed on verandahs lush with mutual love, the softest love – our preferred décor of life's lilly-blossom gate in white-fenced serendipity… Twilight sunlit heavens cross our gardens, graced with perseverance, bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate as a morning dove of charm and mirth – at least with me; our misty mornings glide through air... So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry - of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven in chandliers of winglet cherubs wrought with time immemorial, crafted with innocence, stowed away and brought to light upon our day in hallelujah tapestries of ocean-windswept galleries in breaths of ballet kisses, light, skipping to the breakfast room cascading chrysalis's love in diaphanous imaginings delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed as in our eyes which come to rest evocative, exuberant on one another’s moon-stowed dreams idyllic, in quiescent ways, peaceful in their radiance resplendent with a myriad of thought soothing muse, rhapsodic song until the somnolence of night spreads out again its shaded truss of luminescent fantasies waiting to be loved by us… Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged! I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear, and on and on and on and on - as if our hours were endless here… A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips exalting transcendent minds suffused with sunrise symphonies organic-born tranquilities sublimed sonorous assemblages with scintillas of eternity beating at our breasts – their embraces but a blushing, longing glance away… I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn' before cacophony and chafe coarse in crude and rough abrade when cynical distrust is laid by hoarse and leeching parasites, distaste fraught with smug disgust by hairy, smelly maladroit mediocrities born of poisoned wells grotesque with selfish lies - shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping around our love, as if they rose from Edgar Allen’s own immortal rumpled decomposing clothes… Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry! can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you for so long, in my morning imaginings, through these words, through this song - ‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat," but little treats do sometimes last a little longer; and, oh, but oh, but if I could, I surly would keep you just a little longer tarrying here, tarrying here with me this pleasant morn

But then Azriel approached her. Nesta had blinked at the gift the shadowsinger set in her lap. 'I didn't get you anything,' she murmured to Az, her cheeks turning rosy. 'I know,' he said, smiling. 'I don't mind.' ... ...his gaze snagged on Nesta's fingers as she opened the small box. She peered at what was inside, then looked at Azriel in confusion. 'What is it?' Azriel plucked up the small folded silver wand within and unfurled it. One end held a clip, the other a small glass sphere. 'You can attach this to whatever book you're reading, and the little ball of faelight will shine. So you don't have to squint when you're reading at night.' Nesta touched the glass ball, no bigger than her thumbnail, and faelight flickered within, casting a bright, easy glow upon her lap. She tapped it again and it turned off. And then she jumped to her feet and flung her arms around Azriel. The room went silent for a beat. But Azriel chuckled and squeezed her gently. Cassian smiled to see it- to see them. 'Thank you,' Nesta said, quickly pulling away to marvel at the device. 'It's brilliant.' Azriel blushed and stepped back, shadows swirling.

I’m just trying to figure out what’s so boring that you dozed off ten minutes ago.” She propped herself on her elbows. “I did not!” His brows rose. “I heard you snoring.” “You’re a liar, Chaol Westfall.” She threw her paper at him and plopped back on the couch. “I only closed my eyes for a minute.” He shook his head again and went back to work. Celaena blushed. “I didn’t really snore, did I?” His face was utterly serious as he said, “Like a bear.” She thumped a fist on the couch cushion. He grinned. She huffed, then draped her arm off the sofa, picking at the threads of the ancient rug as she stared up at the stone ceiling

He smiled and pulled the ugly white fichu from her neck. She blinked and looked down at the simple, square neckline of her bodice as if she'd never seen it. Perhaps she hadn't. Perhaps she dressed in the dark like a nun. "What are you doing?" He sighed. "I confess, I find your naïveté perplexing. How have you arrived at the advanced age of six and twenty without having anyone attempt seduction upon yourself? I'm of two minds on the matter: One, utter astonishment at my sex and their deaf disregard for your siren call. Two, glee at the thought that your innocence might signal that you are indeed innocent. Why this should excite me so, I don't know- virginity has never before been a particular whim of mine. I think perhaps it's the setting. Who knows how many virgins were deflowered here by my lusty ancestors? Or," he said as he deftly unpinned and tossed aside her apron, "maybe it's simply you." "I don't..." Her words trailed off and then, interestingly, she blushed a deep rose. Well. That question settled, then. His little maiden was really a maiden. "What?" "I think it's you," he confided, pulling the strings tying her hideous mobcap beneath her chin. She made a wild grab for it, but he was faster, snatching the bloody thing off- finally, and with a great deal of satisfaction. She might've deprived him of a wife that it'd taken him half a year and a rather large sum of money to entangle, but by God, he'd taken off her awful cap. And underneath... "Oh, Séraphine," he breathed, enchanted, for her hair was as black as coal, as black as night, as black as his own soul, save for one white streak just over her left eye. But she'd twisted and braided and tortured the strands, binding them tight to her head, and his fingers itched to let them free. "Don't!" she said, as if she knew what he wanted, her hands flying up to cover her hair. He batted them aside, laughing, pulling a pin here, a pin there, dropping them carelessly to the carpet as she squealed like a little girl and backed away from him, trying frantically to ward off his fingers. He might've taken pity on her had he not just spent an hour on a freezing moor, wondering if he was going to find her dead, neck broken, at the bottom of a hill. Her hair came down all at once, a tumbling mass, tousled and heavy and nearly down to her waist. "Wonderful," he murmured, taking it in both hands and lifting it.

Around the glade this pair of woodland nymphs danced. He swept her in a waltz to a duet that was sometimes off tune, sometimes rent with giggling and laughter as they made their own music. A breathless Erienne fell to a sun-dappled hummock of deep, soft moss, and laughing for the pure thrill of the day, she spread her arms, creating a comely yellow-hued flower on the dark green sward while seeming every bit as fragile as a blossom to the man who watched her. With bliss-bedazzled eyes, she gazed through the treetops overhead where swaying branches, bedecked in the first bright green of spring, caressed the underbellies of the freshlet zephyrs, and the fleecy white clouds raced like frolicking sheep across an azure lea. Small birds played courting games, and the earlier ones tended nests with single-minded perseverance. A sprightly squirrel leapt across the spaces, and a larger one followed, bemused at the sudden coyness of his mate. Christopher came to Erienne and sank to his knees on the thick, soft carpet, then bracing his hands on either side of her, slowly lowered himself until his chest touched her bosom. For a long moment he kissed those blushing lips that opened to him and welcomed him with an eagerness that belied the once-cool maid. Then he lifted her arm and lay beside her, keeping her hand in his as he shared her viewpoint of the day. They whispered sweet inanities, talked of dreams, hopes, and other things, as lovers are wont to do. Erienne turned on her side and taking care to keep her hand in the warm nest, ran her other fingers through his tousled hair. “You need a shearing, milord,” she teased. He rolled his head until he could look up into those amethyst eyes. “And does my lady see me as an innocent lamb ready to be clipped?” At her doubtful gaze, he questioned further. “Or rather a lusting, long-maned beast? A zealous suitor come to seduce you?” Erienne’s eyes brightened, and she nodded quickly to his inquiry. “A love-smitten swain? A silver-armored knight upon a white horse charging down to rescue you?” “Aye, all of that,” she agreed through a giggle. She came to her knees and grasped his shirt front with both hands. “All of that and more.” She bent to place a honeyed kiss upon his lips, then sitting back, spoke huskily. “I see you as my husband, as the father of my child, as my succor against the storm, protector of my home, and lord of yonder manse. But most of all, I see you as the love of my life.” -Erienne & Christopher

You don't have to like me, but I'd like to make working with me less difficult for you. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. But I'm not going anywhere." Sanna watched him say these words, giving her permission to set the rules- yet she could really only focus on his soft pink lips and how she wanted a cider that was precisely that color. It would be sweet and crisp and bubbly. Something you could drink and drink and never get enough of- each sip would reveal a different shade to the flavor, from a lush rose to a pale blush. She had to know what lips that color tasted like, so she leaned forward and kissed him. Barely a whisper, the briefest of touches on his fascinating lips, with a hint of the toasty cider they'd had with dinner. Her senses lit up like Christmas lights. She pulled back even faster than she'd leaned in. The surprise she saw on his face matched her own. "I don't know why I..." Her voice trailed off. Colors still crackled around her. Isaac moved an inch closer, leaning in to inhale near her ear, but he didn't touch her, didn't push her any further. His face was so close she could count the silver flecks in his beard. "I'm glad you did. I like you. You're interesting, smell unexpectedly like roses, and are obviously gifted." He waved a hand at the cidery as he took a shaky breath. "The few times I've made you laugh have made my days, and I hope to succeed at it again. If that will be a problem, let me know. And, Sanna, I give you permission to kiss me whenever you want.

He went to look closely at the painting, which portrayed a parade of fat white geese strolling past the doorway of a cottage. "Someday I'll be able to afford real art," Garrett said, coming to stand beside him. "In the meantime, we'll have to make do with this." Ethan's attention was drawn to the tiny initials in the corner of the work: G.G. A slow smile broke over his face. "You painted it?" "Art class, at boarding school," she admitted. "I wasn't bad at sketching, but the only subject I could manage to paint adequately was geese. At one point I tried to expand my repertoire to ducks, but those earned lower marks, so it was back to geese after that." Ethan smiled, imagining her as a studious schoolgirl with long braids. The light of a glass-globe parlor lamp slid across the tidy pinned-up weight of her hair, bringing out gleams of red and gold. He'd never seen anything like her skin, fine and powerless, with a faint glow like a blush-colored garden rose. "What gave you the idea to paint geese in the first place?" he asked. "There was a goose pond across from the school," Garrett said, staring absently at the picture. "Sometimes I saw Miss Primrose at the front windows, watching with binoculars. One day I dared to ask her what she found so interesting about geese, and she told me they had a capacity for attachment and grief that rivaled humans. They mated for life, she said. If a goose was injured, the gander would stay with her even if the rest of the flock was flying south. When one of a mated pair died, the other would lose its appetite and go off to mourn in solitude.

Besides the fact that you’re a scoundrel at the gaming tables,” she responded tartly, “I’m beginning to suspect that you’re a womanizing rake.” Christopher grinned leisurely as his perusal swept her. “I’ve been a long time at sea. However, I doubt that in your case my reaction would vary had I just left the London Court.” Erienne’s eyes flared with poorly suppressed ire. The insufferable egotist! Did he dare think he could find a willing wench at the back door of the mayor’s cottage? “I’m sure that Claudia Talbot would welcome your company, sir. Why don’t you ride on over to see her? I hear his lordship traveled off to London this morning.” He laughed softly at her sneering tones. “I’d rather be courting you.” “Why?” she scoffed. “Because you want to thwart my father?” His smiling eyes captured hers and held them prisoner until she felt a warmth suffuse her cheeks. He answered with slow deliberation. “Because you are the prettiest maid I’ve ever seen, and I’d like to get to know you better. And of course, we should delve into this matter of your accidents more thoroughly, too.” Twin spots of color grew in her cheeks, but the deepening dusk did much to hide her blush. Lifting her nose primly in the air, Erienne turned aside, tossing him a cool glance askance. “How many women have you told that to, Mr. Seton?” A crooked smile accompanied his reply. “Several, I suppose, but I’ve never lied. Each had their place in time, and to this date, you are the best I’ve seen.” He reached out and taking a handful of the cracklings, he chewed the crisp morsels as he awaited her reaction. A flush of anger spread to the delicate tips of her ears, and icy fire smoldered in the deep blue-violet pools. “You conceited, unmitigated boor!” Her voice was as cold and as flat as the Russian steppes. “Do you think to add me to your long string of conquests?” Her chilled contempt met him face to face until he rose and towered above her. His eyes grew distant, and he reached out a finger to flip a curl that had strayed from beneath the kerchief. “Conquest?” His voice was soft and deeply resonant. “You mistake me, Erienne. In the rush of a moment’s lust, there are purchased favors, and these are for the greater part forgotten. The times that are cherished and remembered are not taken, are not given, but shared, and are thus treasured as a most blissful event.” He lifted his coat on his fingertips and slung it over his shoulder. “I do not ask that you yield to me, nor do I desire to conquer you. All I plead is that you grant me moments now and then that I might present my case, to the end that we could share a tender moment at some distant time.” -Erienne & Christopher

What did you say was chasing you?” Liz sighed in frustration. Apparently the Kindred weren’t big into stuffed animals. “It was this little fuzzy blue thing that came at me when I was in the kitchen—what you called the food-prep area,” she clarified, seeing his confusion. “At first I thought it was cute and tried to pet it. But then it opened its mouth and it had these long, sharp—Omigod! There it is!” She pointed behind Baird where the bright blue teddy bear had suddenly appeared. “Where?” He turned at once, putting himself between her and the perceived threat. Liv couldn’t help noticing he moved with incredible speed for such a large man. She waited breathlessly for the murderous teddy bear to attack but nothing happened. Then, to her dismay, Baird began to laugh. It was a deep, rumbling noise that came from the bottom of his chest and it might have been nice to hear if it wasn’t so obviously directed at her. “What?” Liv glared at him. “Would you mind telling me what’s so damn funny?” “I’m sorry, Olivia. It’s just…I can’t believe you were scared of Bebo.” Baird laughed again. “Bebo? What the hell is a Bebo?” Liv demanded, still keeping her distance from the bright blue teddy bear which was eyeing her mistrustfully. “Bebo’s his name. He’s a zicther—an animal native to my home world, Rageron.” “Rageron?” Liv frowned, wondering why the name of his home planet evoked strange images in her head. Baird nodded. “It’s a jungle planet with a helluva lot more scary animals than Bebo here.” He crouched down to scratch the little animal under its chin. Its large eyes closed and it made a sort of grunting purr as it submitted to his caress. “A jungle planet,” Liv murmured. “Only instead of green, most of the vegetation is blue.” “That’s right.” Baird looked up from where he was crouched on the floor, a startled expression on his chiseled features. “How did you know that?” “I saw it in a dream.” Liv blushed and looked down. “One of the dreams we shared I think. I saw you…never mind.” She shook her head. “Anyway, that accounts for his bright blue fur. I still don’t understand why he tried to attack me though.” “He tried to attack you?” Though he was clearly trying to keep the skepticism from his voice, Baird wasn’t succeeding too well. “Well, he bared his teeth at me!” Liv said, irritated. Of course now that its master was home the little animal was acting like butter wouldn’t melt in its alien mouth. Its alien mouth filled with shark teeth, she reminded herself. “That’s just a greeting stance. He probably did it because he was meeting you for the first time.” Baird rose and dusted blue feathery fur off his large hands. “I’m sorry if he scared you. He’s not dangerous though, just curious.” “Curious

Their eyes met. For a split second she caught a glimpse of heat in his eyes. Then Jake banked the flame and broke out of her embrace. Marnie felt a hot blush rise from her toes to her nose. It took a moment for her eyes to focus and her brain to function. Bewildered, she looked up to find him watching her. His heavy-lidded eyes held a strange desperation as he reached back and unhooked the vice of her ankles from around his wiast. Her legs dropped. Her heels thumped against the cabinet. Beneath his hawklike gaze she felt stripped bare and vulnerable. He studied her face, seeming to see more than her features. He seemed to delve into her mind, to touch things deep and frightening—parts of herself Marnie was still exploring. The muscles in his jaw knotted and unknotted. After a moment he stepped back and casually, but with difficulty, adjusted his jeans Heat flooded her cheeks. Legs splayed, nipples peaked to his clinical gaze, she’d never experienced such acute embarrassment in her life. Her breath hitched as she jumped off the counter, tugging her top down and her pants up. At a loss for hers, she half laughed. “I have absolutely no idea what to say.” Which was a reasonable start, she guessed. It was rare for her to be speechless. But then, this was a day of firsts. “I told you you weren’t my type.” The brass button on his jeans closed like the clasp of a miser’s purse. Other than a faint flush on the ridge of his cheekbones and what looked like a painful erection, he seemed totally unaffected by what had just happened. She stared at him. “Not your t—What do you call what just happened?” Marnie was confused. It was out of character for her to be sexually aggressive. But now that she’d done it, she wasn’t sorry. “What part of ‘I don’t want you’ didn’t you understand?” He’d wanted her. He might lie about it, but his body had been honest. He was as hard as petrified wood. “Then what”—she pointed—“is that?” He ignored the bulge in his jeans. “Just because I have it doesn’t mean I intend to use it.” Marnie stepped forward and touched his arm. He jerked away from her as if she’d used a cattle prod. “Was it something I said?” she asked quietly, dropping her hand to her side. “Look, I have a tendency to sort of speak without running the words through my brain first. But I know I didn’t give out mixed signals just now. I wanted to make love with you. It was very good. No, darn it, it was excellent. So if you have some sort of medical condition, let’s talk about i—” He moved backward, almost tripping over Duchess sprawled on the floor. The dog rose to hover anxiously between them. Jake’s eyes turned as he said, “I do not have a medical condition.” Marnie backed up—mentally as well as physically. Her hip bumped the counter. “Good.” He scowled and swore under his breath. “That is good, isn’t it?” she asked tentatively.

THE NIGHTGOWN was only the first of the garments in the box. There were seven nightgowns, in fact—one for each day of the week—of delicate silk, lovely georgette, and beautiful tiffany. As Alexandra pulled them out, she draped them on the bed. She’d never seen a nightgown that wasn’t white, but these were almond and pale blush pink, powder blue and soft peach, with delicate edgings of lace and intricate, exquisite embroidery. “They’re stunning,” she said. “Madame Rodale has nothing like them in her book of fashion plates.” Tris just grinned. He seemed different tonight. More relaxed, less worried. She didn’t know what had prompted his sudden good humor, but she didn’t want to question it. She’d rather enjoy it instead. After the afternoon she’d had—starting with Elizabeth’s letter and ending with three fruitless interviews—she wasn’t about to risk the one thing that seemed to be going right. “Are you going to try one on for me?” he asked. Her face heated. He chose a nightgown off the bed, palest lavender with black lace and violet embroidery. “This one,” he said, handing it to her. “Do you require assistance with your dress?” “Just the buttons,” she said, and turned to let him unfasten them. She shifted the nightgown in her hands. It felt so light. “There,” he said when the back of her green dress gaped open. He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck, then settled on one of the striped chairs, sipping from the glass of port he’d brought upstairs with him. “Use the dressing room. I’ll be waiting.” In the dressing room, she shakily stripped out of her frock, chemise, shoes, and stockings, then dropped the nightgown over her head and smoothed it down over her hips. The fabric whispered against her legs. She turned to see herself in the looking glass. Sweet heaven. She’d never imagined nightgowns like this existed. Her nightgowns all had high collars that tied at the throat. This one had a wide, low neckline. Her nightgowns all had long, full sleeves. This one had tiny puffed sleeves that began halfway off her shoulders. Her nightgowns were made of yards and yards of thick, billowing fabric. This one was a slender column that left no curve to the imagination. It was wicked. “Are you ready yet?” Tris called. Alexandra swallowed hard, reminding herself that he’d seen her in less clothing. And he was her husband. Still, wearing the nightgown for him somehow felt more intimate than wearing nothing at all. She was as ready as she’d ever be. Drawing a deep breath, she exited the dressing room, walked quickly through the sitting room, and paused in the bedroom’s doorway. She dropped her gaze, then raised her lashes, giving him the look—the one Juliana had said would make men fall at her feet. Judging from the expression on Tris’s face, it was a good thing he was sitting. The way he looked at her made her heartbeat accelerate. He rose and moved toward her. She met him halfway, licking suddenly dry lips. “Will you kiss me?” she asked softly, reaching up to sweep that always unruly lock off his forehead. It worked this time. He kissed her but good.

He moved into a large sitting area, past a sunken bath that could fit ten and through a set of double doors, where he tossed her on the bed. She bounced as she hit and looked up. He didn’t break eye contact as he shed his jacket, tossing it over on a chair. “Strip.” “You first.” Frank toed off his shoes and loosened his tie, pulling it over his head then dropping it to the floor. “Tell you what. Whoever’s naked first, gets to be on top.” He gave her a lecherous grin and was rewarded with a rosy blush, coloring her cheeks. “Okay.” She climbed off the bed. “On the count of three.” “One,” Frank said and lifted his hands to the top of his dress shirt. She did the same, bracing for the count like a racer on the blocks, her hands behind her neck. “Three.” Frank unbuttoned the collar, and tugged the shirt over his head, including the T-shirt underneath. “That’s cheating,” she said, as she fumbled with the hooks down the back of her blouse. “You had a head start. I’m evening the field.” He ripped his belt off and undid his fly and dropped his boxers and pants all at once. She froze and gasped, staring, hunger in her eyes, snapped out of the spell and tossed her blouse and bra to the side, moving fast, but not fast enough. Her skirt puddled around her ankles as Frank stood, as bare as the day he was born. “I win.” She kicked her garment to the side and placed her hands on her hips. Her chest rose and fell, pebbled nipples displayed against gloriously soft skin and full breasts. Her eyes were wild and her soft blonde hair tousled, like she’d already taken a roll in the sack. Man, did he want to make a bigger mess of it.

Your drawing!” Her lantern fell to the ground, the candle flame blowing out as she ran after the flying parchment and tackled it. “So fierce,” Falco murmured, holding out a hand to help Cass to her feet. “I’m beginning to enjoy picking you up off the ground.” Cass looked down at the paper in her hand, which had unrolled during its journey across the grass. The moonlight illuminated what he had drawn: a gorgeous reproduction of the gravestone with the doves on top. Cass flipped the parchment over. On the other side, Falco had sketched the rough outline of a woman’s body. Cass’s breath caught; she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the figure. She marveled at the sharpness of the knees and elbows, at the soft roundness of the figure’s breasts. The face was still a heart-shaped blank, but the hair looked familiar: it fell in thick, lustrous waves like Cass’s own. Falco laughed, leaning in close to Cass. “It almost looks like you’re blushing. Why? It’s not like you’ve never seen a woman’s body before.” “You’ve obviously seen more than I have,” Cass said sharply. Her fingers trembled as she handed the parchment back to Falco, trying to look everywhere but at the drawing, wishing he hadn’t seen her staring at it. Who is she? She wanted to ask, but the words held fast to her lips. “If I have, it’s a shame.” Even in the dark, his eyes were flashing. “If I had your body, I’d stare at it for hours. Days, maybe.” Cass sucked in a sharp breath. “You can’t just say things like that. It’s not, it’s not--” “Proper?” Falco finished. “Perhaps. I didn’t mean it to be offensive. A woman’s body is a beautiful thing.” He took ahold of Cass’s hand and twisted it from side to side, opening and closing her fingers. “The human form, it’s a symphony. Tiny interlocking movements that join together in song.” He slid his hands down over her knuckles until he was gripping the very tips of her fingers. “You play a more delicate tune than I do. Have you never noticed?

Where is the shop?” she asked. “South of San Giovanni,” Falco said. “There is a string of palazzos just across the water. Perhaps we can go there?” They weren’t likely to stumble across the masked man just out wandering the streets of the city, and Cass wasn’t even sure she would recognize him; she had seen nothing but the hardness of his eyes. All she’d had was a feeling about him--that something was off, dangerous. She remembered how he’d spoken of the beauty of war. But it meant a long gondola ride with Falco, and with the threat of her wedding looming closer and closer, she was willing to go just about anywhere with him. Before she could agree, the door to the taverna creaked and Falco moved away from her. She whirled around. Paolo’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “Signorina. It appears we have a mutual friend,” he said. “You should join us.” “This isn’t really the place for a lady,” Falco said. His voice was light, but contained a bit of an edge. “Something tells me you can protect her, Falco.” Paolo held open the door of the taverna. “I insist. What harm can one drink do?” Falco arched an eyebrow at his roommate. “Fine. One drink. Then Signorina Cassandra and I have some plans of our own.” “I can only imagine.” The tall boy’s eyes glittered like black glass. “I take it I shouldn’t expect you home tonight then.” Heat surged through Cass’s cheeks. She prayed that no one could see her blushing in the dim light.

Cassandra,” Falco murmured. He reached up and twisted all her hair into one of his hands, pulling it slightly as he held it behind her head. His lips made their way across her cheek and her jaw and her brow bone. His other hand caressed her left leg through her cotton stocking. His fingers followed the repeating diamond pattern embossed into her leather garter and then stroked the soft skin just above it. Cass felt transported by his touch, his soft voice, and the mist rising off the canals. Everything felt otherworldly. It was a dream or a hallucination. Any moment now she’d wake up tucked beneath her covers with Slipper snuggled against her chest. Just let go. The batèla floated beneath a bridge. A man shrouded in darkness hung over its edge, leering at her. Cass sat up suddenly, wrapping the rough blanket up around her shoulders. She looked back toward the bridge. No one was there. “What’s wrong?” Falco asked. “I thought I saw someone. Hanging over the bridge. Watching.” “Probably just some deviant. Not lucky enough to have the company of a beautiful woman.” Falco moved to kiss Cass again. But fear was drumming through her. It sharpened her focus, and made reality come slamming back. Cass put her hand out. “Wait. We have to stop, to slow down.” Falco sighed. “You’re right,” he said, running both hands through his hair. “Sometimes I think--well, I fear that you shouldn’t trust me.” “Why?” Cass asked. Holding her lantern high in the air, she looked back toward the bridge again, but it was still deserted. “Because I don’t trust myself around you.” Falco’s voice turned soft again. He ran the knuckles of his right hand down the side of her face. “Who knows what I might do?” Cass blushed. “Who knows what I might let you do?” The words just slipped out, but she didn’t want to take them back. She didn’t want to hide any longer. Falco pulled her close to him, positioning her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist and leaned his chin on her left shoulder, his jawbone against her cheek. “Your beauty lights up the darkest night,” he said. “I could paint an entire chapel just for you. Maybe I will someday.

The blush is off the rose, the tonic loses its fizz (as Mom likes to say) when you start seeing people for what they are including those you care about most.

You’re going to send me off now,” Val predicted. “We visit and we hold hands and we even cuddle, Ellen, but you’re still shy of me, and I can’t tell whether I should be flattered or frustrated.” “Valentine.” She set his hand on his thigh. “I am not… I am indisposed.” “Ah, well.” Val brushed his hand down her braid. “That explains it, then. As I myself am never indisposed, except perhaps when my seed is all over my belly and chest, I’m sweating with spent lust on a blanket beneath the willow, and my wits are abegging too.” “You are shameless.” A blush rose up her neck and suffused her cheeks. Val looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side. “And you are very dear. Shall we go swimming tonight?” “You are being outrageous. Trying to shock me.” “Trying to seduce you,” Val corrected her, pulling her in so he could kiss her temple. “Without apparent success, but I’m the patient sort and you won’t be indisposed much longer, will you?” She shook her head. He stayed with her for a long while after that, rocking the swing gently, holding her, and watching darkness fall over the garden. When she began to doze against him, he carried her through the darkened cottage to her bed and tucked her in. Leaving

Well, that’s everyone,” Nigel said, “although we do have one extra basket. Perhaps I could interest you in taking it, Miss Easton. Surely you deserve a Christmas treat as well.” His eyes gleamed with a teasing light, and Amelia could feel her cheeks flushing hot. Having finally acknowledged her feelings for him, it was difficult to meet his gaze. “I think I’ve eaten too many treats already,” she said with a forced chuckle. “I’ve been terribly self-indulgent tonight.” “I cannot agree with you, Miss Easton. To my mind, you aren’t spoiled nearly enough.” His smile fueled her blush. Amelia suspected her cheeks were now as red as his waistcoat. “I am in complete agreement,” Aunt Lucy chimed in. “Amelia is always thinking of others, never of herself. But as much as she deserves additional treats, that extra basket is for her sister, Gwen.” “Ah, the youngest Easton,” Nigel said. “She didn’t join us tonight.” “She’s confined to the nursery with an earache, poor thing,” Amelia explained, “and she’s very sad to be missing all the fun.” She paused to watch Nigel gingerly extract the mistletoe wreath from his hair. “I know it’s a great deal to ask, Mr. Dash, but do you think…” She trailed off, hating to impose on him yet again. Nigel placed the crown back on his head with a rueful smile. “Why not? It’s not as if I could look any more of a fool that I already do.” “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Broadmore said, barging in to the conversation. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Dash. Wait till everyone around town hears how you played the fool.” Aunt Lucy gave his lordship her most imperial glare as she rose. “I am vastly grateful to Mr. Dash for his generosity and kindness. His charitable spirit is certainly a great deal more admirable than yours, Lord Broadmore, and entirely in keeping with the holiday season.” She turned her back on him to speak with Thomas. In the face of that forceful snub, Broadmore could do nothing but silently fume. Nigel gave him a bland smile but saved a wink for Amelia. Choking back a laugh, she came to her feet. “I’ll escort you to the nursery, Mr. Dash. I promised to visit Gwen before her bedtime, and I know she’ll be thrilled to have a visit from Father Christmas.” She plucked the ornate basket of sweets from the footman’s tray. “I’ll take that, Thomas.” Broadmore

Someday Tatiana must tell Alexander how glad she is that her sister Dasha did not die without once feeling what it was like to love. Alexander. Here he is, before he was Tatiana’s, at the age of twenty, getting his medal of valor for bringing back Yuri Stepanov during the 1940 Winter War. Alexander is in his dress Soviet uniform, snug against his body, his stance at-ease and his hand up to his temple in teasing salute. There is a gleaming smile on his face, his eyes are carefree, his whole man-self full of breathtaking, aching youth. And yet, the war was on, and his men had already died and frozen and starved... and his mother and father were gone... and he was far away from home, and getting farther and farther, and every day was his last—one way or another, every day was his last. And yet, he smiles, he shines, he is happy. Anthony is gone so long that his daughters say something must have happened to him. But then he appears. Like his father, he has learned well the poker face and outwardly remains imperturbable. Just as a man should be, thinks Tatiana. A man doesn’t get to be on the President’s National Security Council without steeling himself to some of life’s little adversities. A man doesn’t go through what Anthony went through without steeling himself to some of life’s little adversities. In this hand Anthony carries two faded photographs, flattened by the pages of the book, grayed by the passing years. The kitchen falls quiet, even Rachel and Rebecca are breathless in anticipation. “Let’s see...” they murmur, gingerly picking up the fragile, sepia pictures with their long fingers. Tatiana is far away from them. “Do you want to see them with us, Grammy? Grandpa?” “We know them well,” Tatiana says, her voice catching on something. “You kids go ahead.” The grandchildren, the daughter, the son, the guests circle their heads, gaping. “Washington, look! Just look at them! What did we tell you?” Shura and Tania, 23 and 18, just married. In full bloom, on the steps of the church near Lazarevo, he in his Red Army dress uniform, she in her white dress with red roses, roses that are black in the monochrome photo. She is standing next to him, holding his arm. He is looking into the camera, a wide grin on his face. She is gazing up at him, her small body pressed into him, her light hair at her shoulders, her arms bare, her mouth slightly parted. “Grammy!” Rebecca exclaims. “I’m positively blushing. Look at the way you’re coming the spoon on Grandpa!” She turns to Alexander from the island. “Grandpa, did you catch the way she is looking at you?” “Once or twice,” replies Alexander. The other colorless photo. Tania and Shura, 18 and 23. He lifts her in the air, his arms wrapped around her body, her arms wrapped around his neck, their fresh faces tilted, their enraptured lips in a breathless open kiss. Her feet are off the ground. “Wow, Grammy,” murmurs Rebecca. “Wow, Grandpa.” Tatiana is busily wiping the granite island. “You want to know what my Washington said about you two?” Rebecca says, not looking away from the photograph. “He called you an adjacent Fibonacci pair!” She giggles. “Isn’t that sexy?” Tatiana shakes her head, despite herself glancing at Washington with reluctant affection. “Just what we need, another math expert. I don’t know what you all think math will give you.” And Janie comes over to her father who is sitting at the kitchen table, holding her baby son, bends over Alexander, leans over him, kisses him, her arm around him, and murmurs into his ear, “Daddy, I’ve figured out what I’m going to call my baby. It’s so simple.” “Fibonacci?” She laughs. “Why, Shannon, of course. Shannon.” The

Her pace was slow, and after a moment, she glimpsed him. Iain straightened in the water, unable to stop his smile. Well, now. Wasn’t this an interesting dilemma? “You have me at a disadvantage, a chara.” He took a few steps closer, unable to resist teasing her. Now the water was at his waistline, and Rose put up her hands. “Stop,” she commanded. “I didn’t realize you were here. There’s no need to . . . leave the water.” Her face held a lovely blush, and he rather wanted to see what she would do now. “I’ll just go now.” Oh, no. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity escape. “I had just finished swimming,” he said. “If you’d like to take your turn, the water is all yours. Though, I must say, it’s a bit cold now.” “I wasn’t planning to swim.” He took another step closer, and this time, the water grazed his hip bones. Rose scrunched her eyes shut. “No, you needn’t come any farther.” He rather wondered if she would sneak a glimpse if he were to leave the lake. He took another step forward, baring a bit more of himself. When she didn’t respond, he guessed that she was indeed hiding her eyes. “I do need my clothes,” he pointed out. “And they are on the shore at the moment. I’ll go and fetch them.” This time, he strode out of the water, fully bared. God almighty, it was cold. He watched Rose closely as he continued toward his clothes, but she kept both hands covering her eyes. He couldn’t be certain, but it almost looked as if there was a slight space between her fingers. Was is possible that she was staring at him? “Are you enjoying the view, a chara?” he asked as he reached for his smallclothes and trousers. “I am not looking at you.” “So you say.” He smiled to himself as he dressed. When he was half-clothed, he returned toward her horse. Aye, he could have finished putting on his shirt and the remainder of his clothing, but he wanted to see her reaction, to tease her a little more. “You can look now.” She did, and promptly shut her eyes again. “You are not dressed, Lord Ashton.” “All the important bits are. And it’s not as if you haven’t seen me in this state before.” She let out a groan. “Really, now. Must you behave in such a villainous manner?” “I would only be a villain if I pulled you from that horse and threw you in the lake.” He had no intention of doing so, but the slight gasp she emitted made it clear that she wasn’t quite so certain. “Don’t you dare.” He approached the horse while her eyes were still closed and reached up, pulling her down to stand before him. Rose squealed, and tried to fight him, but he held her steady. “Now, a chara, I wouldn’t do such a thing to you.” “You took me off the horse.” “So I did. You were wanting to walk, were you not?” He kept her standing, knowing full well that his body was still wet from the lake. “Your skin is freezing,” she pointed out. “The water was too cold.” “It’s England. It will never get warm,” he felt compelled to remind her. And he was accustomed to swimming in frigid water, for it wasn’t at all warm in Ireland, either. But the longer he held her waist, the more she had an effect upon him. Her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. Her reddish-brown hair was caught up in a pretty green bonnet, and she wore a riding habit that revealed the dip in her waist and the curve of her hips. Iain kept his arms around her, enjoying the temptation before him. There was no denying that Lady Rose was a stunningly beautiful woman, one he wanted to touch. Not yours, he warned himself. But she wasn’t fighting his hands upon her waist. And although she gave a slight shiver, she didn’t seem frightened of him. “I’m not going to harm you, Lady Rose,” he reminded her. “You can open your eyes.” After a moment, she did. “I cannot believe you were swimming naked in the lake. Did you think no one would come along?” He shrugged. “I don’t suppose I cared if anyone did.

Hello,” he said. “…hello,” she replied, perplexed. “I thought I should start off with hello, seeing as I neglected to say it earlier.” Her brow came down in confusion. Where was he going with this? “Not because you took me by surprise,” he continued. “Although you did. But because I didn’t think I needed to have a beginning with you. Since we began so long ago, you see.” One eyebrow rose. “But I was wrong, and for that, I apologize.” His eyes became suddenly sad, and it was all Susannah could do to not reach out and touch his cheek. But she restrained herself. “I was away too long,” he whispered. “Three Christmases, six birthdays. However many weeks…” “One hundred fifty-six.” She found the corner of her mouth ticking up. “You were missed,” she concurred. “At home.” “Did you miss me?” he asked suddenly, and a thrill of heat ran through her. Between them. “Yes.” Her answer was frank. Calm. “Did you miss me?” “I missed far too much of you,” he answered. “I did not even realize how much until I came here and found the little girl that I knew had gone.” “She’s not gone,” Susannah conceded. “Not entirely. I still ride Clarabelle at home.” “Do you now?” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “In breeches,” she whispered. Something lit in his eyes. Some kind of… anticipation. And now she knew why her Aunt Julia had ordered her to not wear breeches while riding with other people. Not because they would offend. But because they could entice. She blushed at the thought, broke his gaze, looked at her shoes, at the little bench, and the candles dripping festive red wax in the wall sconce, looked at the eave they stood under, and the vines of ivy and garland that hung there. “I want the chance to start again with you, Susannah,” Sebastian whispered. “This new Susannah. I am a bit off-kilter here, and if you would simply give me the opportunity to catch up, I think you and I… I think we could…” He let that sentence drift off. Left her breathless at what he might have said. “Oh, I’m making a complete bungle of it, aren’t I?” He dropped her hand – had he been holding it this whole time? Ever since he pulled her in here? – and crossed his arms over his chest. “No, you’re not.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm, unwilling to break the connection. “And yes, I suppose a fresh start is fair.” After all, she reasoned, she’d had years to nurse her feelings. He’d had approximately ten minutes. A grin spread across his face, sending her heart into a hummingbird’s pace. She found herself smiling too. No, it was not him falling to his knees professing his love. But it was a start. “Then perhaps I should ask the beautiful Miss Westforth to dance.” The fast-paced reel was in its final notes now. A new dance would start up in minutes. “I would love to.” After

She couldn’t help it; she looked hungrily at his dessert-covered chest and abs. Like a woman starved and stranded at sea. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. But before she could reply, or attack and devour him, a boat horn sounded, making them both start. An amused voice carried the short distance across the water. “He surrenders, Kerry! Don’t make him walk the plank!” Kerry pulled back as if she’d been physically poked, swinging her gaze across the water to where another sailboat was passing by, getting ready to leave the harbor for the bay, sails fully unfurled. It was Jim Stein, with his wife, Carol, an older couple who were long-time friends of Fergus’s but well known to the whole McCrae clan. She felt her cheeks flaming in embarrassment and was grateful they were far enough away not to see the particulars of what was going on. Of course they could plainly see Cooper was shirtless, but she still had on the hoodie and fishing hat, so how inappropriately could they be behaving, right? If only they knew. Five more minutes and her old friends might have gotten a completely different eyeful. Hell, five more seconds. She waved, flashed a thumbs-up, then waved again as they sailed on, leaving laughter in their wake. With her teeth still gritted in a smile, she said, “This will be all over the Cove five seconds after they get back. Sooner if they have radio signal.” She turned back to Cooper, who was grinning shamelessly, hands linked behind his head now, as if preparing for his plank walk. “Very funny,” she said, trying to ignore how the posture made his biceps flex and showed off the definition in his six-pack. She couldn’t help but note that some of the blueberries had slid all the way down to the waistband of his cargo shorts, leaving streaks of blue on his skin, like arrows pointing to where she should go to resume their little game. She realized she was staring when her eyes slid a little lower still and--she jerked her gaze back to his, realizing he’d made her blush again. She typically wasn’t much of a blusher either. But she didn’t usually find herself playing food Twister with a half-naked man. Rather than finding a mocking smile waiting for her, the curve of his lips was amused, maybe even a little affectionate. Like she was being cute or something. She’d show him cute. Then she met his eyes and saw there was nothing amused or even borderline condescending to be found there. Incendiary was the word that came to mind.

On account of their puny size and disappointing taste, in France wild pears are known as "poires d'angoisse" or pears of anguish. In Versailles, though, in the kitchen garden, pears are bred for pleasure. Of the five hundred pear trees, the best usually fruit in January--- the royal favorite, a type called "Bon Chrétien d'Hiver," or "Good Christian of Winter." Each pear is very large--- the blossom end engorged, the eye deeply sunk--- whilst the skin is a finely grained pale yellow, with a red blush on the side that has been touched by the sunlight. It is known for its brittle, lightly scented, almost translucent flesh that drips with a sugary juice; that soaks your mouth when your teeth sink into it. The gardener here, Jean-Baptiste de La Quintinie, says that when a pear is ripe its neck yields to the touch and smells slightly of wet roses. This winter they have not ripened, though, but have frozen to solid gold. Murders of crows sit on the branches of the pear trees, pecking at the rime of them. They have become fairy fruit; those dangling impossibilities. What would you give to taste one? Spring always comes, though. Is it not magic? The world's deep magic. March brings the vast respite of thaw, that huge unburdening, that gentling--- all winter's knives and jaws turning soft and blunt; little chunks of ice riding off on their own giddy melt; everything dripping and plipping and making little streams and rivulets; tender pellucid fingers feeling their way towards the sea; all the tiny busywork. And with the returning sun, too, sex. Tulips, first found as wild flowers in Central Asia--- named for the Persian word "tulipan," for turban--- thrust and bow in the warm soil of Versailles, their variegated "broken" petals licked with carmine flames. The early worm-catchers begin their chorus, skylarks and song thrushes courting at dawn. Catkins dangle like soft, tiny pairs of elven stockings. Fairy-sized wigs appear on the pussy willows. Hawthorn and sloe put on their powder and patches, to catch a bee's eye.

Killer dumpling," Cade said. "Delicious dessert," came simultaneously from Grace. "Seconds here, please," requested Cade. Grace debated. "No more dumpling for me, but a little more ice cream would be nice." Amelia rose, smiled innocently. "Food and sex, there's always room for seconds." Grace blushed, and her ears burned. Cade blew off any embarrassment he might feel. He leaned back in his chair, said, "I like the way you think, Amelia. Philosophy for all occasions." "Old and wise and words to live by.

I look at the pool of glittering starlight and let out a heavy breath. I needed to change the subject. 'What would happen if I were to drink the water?' Tamlin straightened a bit- then relaxed, as if glad to release that old sadness. 'Legend claims you'd be happy until your last breath.' He added, 'Perhaps we both need a glass.' 'I don't think that entire pool would be enough for me,' I said, and he laughed. 'Two jokes in one day- a miracle sent from the Cauldron,' he said. I cracked a smile. He came a step closer, as if forcibly leaving behind the dark, sad stain of what had happened to Lucien, and the starlight danced in his eyes as he said. 'What would be enough to make you happy?' I blushed from my neck to the top of my head. 'I- I don't know.' It was true- I'd never given that sort of thing any thought beyond getting my sisters safely married off and having enough food for me and my father, and time to learn to paint. 'Hmm,' he said, not stepping away. 'What about the ringing of bluebells? Or a ribbon of sunshine? Or a garland of moonlight?' He grinned wickedly. High Lord of Prythian indeed. High Lord of Foolery was more like it.

The bathroom door opened. He turned as Lisa stepped out. Leaving the light on, she pulled the door almost closed so a little light would illuminate the room for them. Taelon turned off the overhead light and crossed to the bed. Lisa faced him on the other side of it and fiddled with the edge of her towel. “My clothes are still wet.” “Mine are, too.” “I’m thinking there’s no way this towel is going to stay around me while I sleep.” “Do you wish to sleep without it?” he asked, willing his body not to respond to just the idea of it. “Um . . .” “I can sleep on the floor.” “Hell no. Not with those wounds. You’ll sleep in the bed with me. I’m just . . . not exactly an exhibitionist.” He hesitated. “I don’t think my translator is giving me an accurate definition of that word.” Her eyebrows rose. “You have a translator?” “Yes. All members of the Aldebarian Alliance do.” She studied him curiously. “Where is it?” He pointed to his head, just behind his ear. “Embedded in my brain.” “I’m surprised the doctors at the base didn’t remove it.” “Their scans failed to detect it because it isn’t metal and appears to be part of my skull when viewed with your more primitive scanning devices.” “That’s trippy.” “That word isn’t translating at all.” She tilted her head to one side. “What did it tell you an exhibitionist is?” “A street performer.” She laughed. “When I said I’m not an exhibitionist, I meant I’m not comfortable flaunting my naked body.” She glanced down and wrinkled her nose. “Especially when it looks like this.” “You’re shy?” “More self-conscious than shy,” she admitted. “I don’t know. I guess, despite my actions earlier, I just don’t want you to see me naked.” Surprise coursed through him. “You don’t want ME to see YOU naked?” Her brow furrowed. “Yeah.” Taelon shook his head. “Lisa, you’re beautiful.” When she started to speak, he held up a hand. “I’m not saying that to put you at ease. I think you’re lovely. So much so that I’ve honestly been having a hard time keeping myself from staring at you too long.” Her lips parted in surprise. “Really?” “Yes.” He motioned to the towel at his hips. “This doesn’t exactly hide my body’s response to you, so I’ve been trying to keep my focus from drifting lower than your pretty face. You’re beautiful, Lisa. If anyone should wish to hide his body, it’s me. I’m quite a bit thinner than I used to be.” Her eyes widened. “Seriously?” She motioned to his form. “You have all that muscle.” “I used to have more. And I’m covered with all these ghastly wounds and scars because I’m too weak to regenerate. I don’t know how you can stand to look at me or manage not to grimace when you touch me. So again, I will offer to sleep on the floor.” She stared at him, unspeaking. “I won’t be offended if you don’t wish to sleep with me,” he assured her. Assuming an exaggeratedly somber expression, he rested a hand over his heart and spoke in dejected tones. “I will just be deeply, deeply hurt.” Her lips twitched, then she laughed. “You are so freaking likable.” He smiled. “I feel the same about you.” “Okay then. We’re both adults. And neither one of us is physically up to engaging in anything amorous anyway, so—” “Well,” he said with a grin, “that isn’t precisely true.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Stop making me blush!” He laughed.