“I love sitting out here, especially this time of day, or early in the morning.”

“Your grandkids must love playing out here.”

They drank wine, ate her fancy appetizers, talked of her grandchildren, which boosted him to relate anecdotes from Rowan’s childhood.

He wondered why he’d had those moments of panic. Being with her was so comfortable once he got off the starting blocks. And every time she smiled something stirred inside him. After a while it—almost—didn’t seem strange to find himself enjoying a pretty summer evening, drinking soft wine, admiring the view while talking easily with a beautiful woman.

It—almost—blocked out memories of how he’d spent so many other summer evenings. How his daughter was spending hers now.

“You’re thinking of her. Your Ro.”

“I guess it stays in the back of my mind. She’s good, and she’s with a solid unit. They’ll get the job done.”

“What would she be doing now?”

“Oh, it depends.” So many things, he thought, and all of them hard, dangerous, necessary. “She might be on a saw line. They’d plot out a position, factor in how the fire’s reacting, the wind and so on, and take down trees, cut out brush.”

“Because those are fuel.”

“Yeah. They’ve got a couple water sources, so she might be on the hose. I know they dropped mud on her earlier.”

“Why would they drop mud on Rowan?”

His laugh broke out, long, delighted. “Sorry. I meant the fire. Mud’s what we call the retardant the tanker drops. Believe me, no smoke jumper wants to be under that.”

“And you call the fire her because men always refer to dangerous or annoying things they have to deal with as female.”

“Ah...”

“I’m teasing you. More or less. Come inside while I start dinner. You can keep me company and tell me about mud.”

“You don’t want to hear about mud.”

“You’re wrong,” she told him as they gathered up the tray, the glasses, the wine. “I’m interested.”

“It’s thick pink goo, and burns if it hits your skin.”

“Why pink? It’s kind of girlie.”

He grinned as she got out a skillet. “They add ferric oxide to make it red, but it looks like pink rain when it’s coming down. The color marks the drop area.”

She drizzled oil into the skillet from a spouted container, diced up garlic, some plump oval-shaped tomatoes, all the while asking him questions, making comments.

She certainly seemed interested, he thought, but he was having a hard time concentrating. The way she moved, the way her hands looked when she chopped and diced, the way she smiled and smelled, the way his name sounded when it came from her lips.

Her lips.

He didn’t mean to do it. That’s what happened when he acted before he thought. But he was a little in her way when she turned away from the work island, and their bodies bumped and brushed. She tipped her face up, smiled, maybe she started to speak, but then...

A question in her eyes, or an invitation? He didn’t know, didn’t think. Just acted. His hands slid onto her shoulders, and he laid his lips over hers.

So soft. So sweet. Yielding under his even as her hands ran up his back, linked there to hold them together. She rose onto her toes, and the sensation of her body sliding up his simmered heat under the soft.

He wanted to burrow into her as he would a blanket at the end of a cold winter’s night.

He gave up her lips, rested his forehead to hers.

“It’s your smile,” he murmured. “It makes it hard for me to think straight.”

She framed his face, lifted his head until she could look in his eyes. Sweet man, she thought. Sweet, sweet man.

“I think dinner can wait.” She eased away, turned the heat off under the oil, then leaned back to look at him again. “Do you want to go upstairs with me, Lucas?”

“I—”

“We’re not kids. We’ve both got more years behind us than ahead. When we have a chance for something good, we ought to take it. So...” She held out a hand. “Come upstairs with me.”

He took her hand, let out a shaky breath as she led him through the house. “You don’t just feel sorry for me, do you?”

“Why would I?”

“Because I so obviously want... this.”

“Lucas, if you didn’t, I’d feel sorry for me.” Humor sparkled over her face when she tipped it up to his. “I’ve wondered since you called if we’d take each other to bed tonight, then I had to do thirty minutes of yoga to stop being nervous.”

“Nervous? You?”

“I’m not a kid,” she reminded him as she drew him into her bedroom, where the light through the windows glowed soft. “Men your age often look at thirty-somethings, not fifty-somethings. That’s twenty years of gravity against me.”

“What would I want with someone young enough to be my kid?”

When she laughed at that, he grinned. “Hell. It’d just make me feel old. I’m already worried I’ll mess this up. I’m out of practice, Ella.”

“I’m pretty rusty myself. I guess we’ll see if we tune up as we go. You could start by kissing me again. We both seemed to have that part down.”

He reached for her, and this time her arms went around his neck. He felt her rise up to her toes again as their lips met, as they parted for the slow, seductive slide of tongues.

He let himself stop thinking, stop worrying what if. Just act. His hands stroked down her back, over her hips, up her sides, then up again to pull the pins out of her hair.

It tumbled over his hands, slid through his fingers while she tipped back her head so his lips could find the line of her throat.

Nerves floated away on an indescribable mix of comfort and excitement. She shivered when he eased back to unbutton her shirt. As he did when she did the same for him.

She slipped out of her sandals; he toed off his shoes.

“So far...”

“So good,” he finished, and kissed her again.

And, oh, yes, she thought, he definitely had that part down.

She pushed his shirt aside, splayed her hands over his chest. Hard and fit from a lifetime of training, scarred from a lifetime of duty. She laid her lips on it as he drew her shirt off to join his on the floor. When he took her br**sts in his hands, she forgot about gravity. How could she worry when he looked at her as though she were beautiful? When he kissed her with such quiet, such total intensity?