I prop my head in my hand. “I thought you were the queen sleeper. What’s the story there? Insomnia visiting you?”

She quirks her lips. Holds out her hands. “Lot on my mind.”

I push up higher. “Yeah?”

She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I keep thinking about your day.” Then she rolls her eyes. “You know me. Everything is all mushed together.”

“Like cake batter, huh?”

She nods. “I’m all blended,” she says, then mimes mixing up some goodies.

“Do you want to . . . talk?”

“I don’t want to keep you up.”

“I’m already up.”

Her eyes drift to my bed. My breath escapes my body. Shit. Fuck. Hell. Heaven. There’s no excuse for what I’m about to do. But I do it anyway.

I pat my bed.

A small lift of her lips is her answer.

Then a step forward. Her bare feet pad across my floor. Every moment is a chance to turn back. But every moment she comes closer.

And closer.

And now she lowers herself to my bed. She’s barely wearing anything. I’m only in briefs. She lies on top of the sheets. I’m under them. But she’s inches away.

Technically, I can play my mind games with myself. I can rationalize this choice in a simple, logical way. We’re still dressed. A sheet separates us. She lies on her back. I’m propped on my side.

But the moonlight, and the hour, and this aching in my chest won’t let me lie to myself anymore.

I’m buzzed.

I’m totally fucking tipsy on the possibility. We’ve hugged, we’ve touched, we’ve been like two middle-schoolers tapping shoulders and tickling waists.

Tonight, we’re adults in bed.

“I was thinking about your patient tonight.” Her tone is introspective. “You said Blake was thirty-four. And the heart attack was out of the blue. I’m only twenty-eight.”

“You’re not going to have a heart attack, Josie.”

“Right. I know. I mean, I think I won’t. I don’t eat too many treats,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. Her hand drifts to her belly, and she pats it. “I mean, maybe a few more than I should.”

“Stop it. You’re beautiful,” I say before I can think better of it.

She arches a brow. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I could lose five pounds. Maybe ten.”

I roll my eyes. “If you lost five pounds, you wouldn’t be you. You’re a baker. No one wants a skinny baker. And trust me, wherever these five or ten pounds are that you want to lose, I don’t want to see them gone.”

She smiles. “Thank you. The funny thing is, I think I’d regret not tasting and sampling the things I make more than I’d enjoy being five pounds lighter. So, honestly, I’m happy with my five or ten extra, I suppose. I feel like at the end of my life, whether it’s at age thirty-four or ninety or twenty-nine, I won’t be saying, ‘I wish I ate less cake.’ Or ‘I wish I had fewer seven-layer bars.’ And I don’t think I’ll be saying, ‘I should have spent more time on Facebook or Twitter or Snapchat,’ either.”

I laugh. Josie’s hardly online. She’s social, but she’s social in real life. “What would you regret?”

She shifts closer and props her head in her hand, mirroring me. The space between us is endless, and at the same time, it barely exists. Maybe six or seven inches separate us. Few enough for me to loop my fingers in her hair, tug her close, and kiss the hell out of her. But more than enough for me to not cross that line, too.

Lines. Friendship. Having her in my life. Living with her. Those reasons ought to be enough to stay on this side of the kiss/don’t kiss divide.

“I’m not sure I’d regret anything,” she says. “I’m trying to live a life without regrets. I’m glad I took over the bakery. I’m glad I took out the loan. I’m glad I pursued my dreams. I’m even glad I’m doing the whole online-dating thing,” she says, and my heart sinks like a stone.

“Yeah?”

“I’d like to find the one. I’d like to fall in love. I’d like to have a family and all that jazz.”

“You would?”

She nods. “I would. I try to do the things that matter to me so I won’t have regrets. Do you have any regrets?”

I flop to my back, reflecting on her question. “I’ve done the things I want to do so far. The things that are important to me. So, honestly, aside from you using my hand as Lyle Lyle, I can’t really think of a thing I regret not doing,” I say, deadpan all the way.

She’s silent, and I look over at her.

A smile spreads slowly across her pretty face. Her green eyes twinkle with mischief, and her soft, sweet lips lift into a sexy grin.

Then she flips to her side, her back to me, and slides under the sheets. She scoots closer. I take that as my cue to spoon her.

I’ve drunk too much champagne. I’ve eaten too much dessert. I’m in bed with Josie Hammer, her sweet, sexy body pressed to mine, and she reaches for my hand.

I slide it over her shirt and between her breasts, and I groan.

I’ve finally become a stuffed crocodile, and it’s better than all my fantasies.

She sighs, the kind of sleepy nighttime sigh of contentment that comes from a woman who’s living a life without regret. I’d like to think I am, too. But when she falls asleep a minute later in my arms, I do regret something.