“I’ve been here for weeks, Leo—weeks! And you never once thought to mention you had a daughter?” I jammed a bite of steak into my mouth and chewed it furiously. “Like, hey, Roxie, here’s some of these strawberries you like—my kid loves them too,” or, “Thanks for showing me this swimming hole; I’ll have to bring Polly up here sometime,” or, “Hey, Roxie, before I fuck you senseless, did I mention the fact that I’ve got a secret daughter?”

I cut the steak so hard that half of it went flying to the floor, and the other half streaked across the platter. I blinked up at Leo, who wore an expression that I imagine someone who’s just been slapped might wear.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he asked softly.

I dug into the remaining half of my steak, sawing back and forth with a vengeance. “Not sure what I’d be kidding about here, Leo. You lied to me.”

“I never lied.”

“You want to talk semantics? A lie of omission is still a lie.” I forked up a big bite of steak and shoved it in.

Leo scrubbed his hands down his face, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did you really just Bill Clinton me?”

“Call it what you want. But you and I both know that you chose not to tell me about your daughter, and where I come from”—I paused to swallow—“that makes you a liar.”

“Where I come from, it doesn’t make me a liar. It makes me cautious about who I trust with my family,” he replied evenly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter.

Before I had a chance to send over the next volley, he looked straight through me. “And you and I both know that you made it clear from the beginning that you wanted nothing to do with me beyond this summer.”

“I didn’t . . . that’s not . . . you make it sound like . . .” I spluttered, trying to form a sentence.

“You did, it is, and it’s exactly what it sounds like,” he replied.

“You agreed! I asked you, and you agreed! We both went into this knowing exactly what this was, and haven’t we had a grand old time?” I snapped, kicking my chair back into its place and dumping my plate into the sink. “This, right here, is the reason I don’t get involved.”

I glared into the sink, the room now silent except for the drip drip drip from the old faucet. Then a shuffle, and then the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. Because he was behind me, and my stupid traitor skin knew enough to be thrilled.

“That night you made me dinner, here, with the beets? What did you tell me?” he asked, his voice low, his mouth only inches away from my ear.

“I told you lots of things,” I hedged, trying like hell to resist the muscle memory that was aching to lean my head back, onto his chest, which I knew was steady and strong.

“You told me love was messy, painful, and emotionally draining.”

I winced to hear my words thrown back at me. But then he went on. “Do you remember that first night I had you, on the porch?”

The memory came so fast the moan was out of my mouth before I could stop it. Leo, strong and beautiful, sliding in and out of me, gazing down at me with something like wonder. I nodded, biting down on my lip to stop from moaning again.

His hands were on either side of me now, his heat all around me. “And I told you it’d been a long time for me?”

I did remember. That first time, it’d been frantic and furious and incredible. Then he’d fucked me again upstairs, this time slow and sure, with more of the same incredible. I nodded again, wondering where this was going.

“My daughter is seven years old,” he whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear.

My brow crinkled. What did that have to do with—oh. Oh now, wait a minute. He couldn’t mean . . . oh. Realization dawning, I spun around, confused but not really that confused anymore.

“You mean that you hadn’t— Not since—Really?” I asked, my hands automatically going to his chest, looking him dead in the eyes. “But that’s . . . You’re so . . . That’s criminal!”

“Criminal?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting the tiniest bit.

I smacked his chest for emphasis. “Have you seen yourself? More to the point, have you fucked yourself?”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, brought to mind imagery that would keep me warm on cold winter nights for the rest of my life. Not to mention the heat that flared in his eyes. I felt my own cheeks flame, and I knew I was losing credibility here. “I just mean— hell. I don’t know what I mean.” I patted his chest absently, grounding myself in the feel of him. “I guess the question is, why?”

“Why I hadn’t had sex in so long? Or why I didn’t tell you about Polly?” he asked, his arms still on either side of me. One hand came up easily to my hip, settling there, his thumb stroking the skin exposed.

It thrilled me no end to have his hands on me once more. And it scared me beyond belief that his hands could thrill me so. Did I have the courage to push past that?

“Answer both,” I ventured, my hands no longer patting but smoothing, soothing. Touching just because I could? Okay, we’ll go with that.

“I will answer both; they’re actually linked. But it’s a bit of a story—are you up for it? It’s all the things you say you don’t like: messy, painful”—he bumped his hips into mine—“and emotionally draining.”

He was giving me a choice here. Not just to hear his story, but to take this next step with him. To hear his story, and let him in. To hear his story, and he’d trust me with it. Was I up for this?