* * *

In the week that follows, Pierce makes good on his promise to keep business and pleasure separate. Sort of. Okay, not really. Typically Marley deals with the clients throughout the sale, but I’m cc’d into every email, and Pierce calls and messages me about all of the fine details.

Every phone call—which come daily—begins with a question about financing, closing dates, wording in a contract. Once I’m finished patiently explaining something Pierce clearly already knows the answer to, he switches into flirt mode. Both of us have busy schedules this week, so he ends up tagging along with me to my pottery class on Wednesday. It’s something I’ve done since I was a kid, and I took it up again in the past year. It was more fun to have Pierce with me than I thought it would be, especially since I suck at it a lot and have no plans to get better at it. Sometimes practice doesn’t make perfect, but in this case I don’t mind. Pierce wanted to pretend to be Patrick Swayze in Ghost. All he succeeded in doing was making a colossal mess.

After we finished our pottery projects, he gave me a very long, very drawn-out kiss on the middle of the sidewalk and asked me out for dinner the next night. I get what he’s doing—withholding sexual gratification in order to secure future dates. It works. I know how worth it those orgasms will be when I eventually get him alone.

I’m meeting him for dinner tonight on the beach since I already have a potential client appointment set up there this afternoon. Marley and I spent all of last Sunday canvassing the older, less well-maintained homes, bringing by cookies and chatting up the owners, looking for potential homes to buy—or sell, depending on the price point and how much work it needs. I happened on Muriel Barber tending her beautiful gardens, and we got to talking about how much work it is to maintain, even with help.

She’s a widow, and as much as she loves the place, she’s decided she’d like to relocate closer to her son who lives in Texas. Especially since she’s about to be a grandmother to twins and she’d like to be around to help.

So today I’m spending a little time with her, making cookies. Which will give me a chance to check out the interior and see if it’s within our renovation budget. Marley’s doing the same thing at another house on the opposite end of the beach. We’re on the same mission: Seek out potential properties and decide whether we can afford to flip or sell, one batch of cookies at a time.

I check my appearance in my compact. Hair pulled up in a neat ponytail. Check. Lip gloss. Check. Reasonably nice outfit good for baking. Check. Baking supplies. Check.

I knock on the door with a big smile plastered on my face and wait. And wait some more. I check my watch. It’s after one. We planned this in advance. A lump forms in my throat. What if little old Ms. Barber had a heart attack in her sleep? What if she’s fallen and she can’t get up? Or maybe she’s napping. The last thought makes me feel marginally better.

I knock again. Harder this time and wait a little bit longer, but still nothing. It’s a beautiful day. Maybe she’s out by the pool and can’t hear me. She loves her pool since getting down to the beach has become more difficult for her recently. She had a hip replacement last year.

With a bowl of cookie dough tucked under my arm, I round the side of the house to the backyard patio that overlooks the beach. As suspected, Ms. Barber is lounging in one of the chairs, her wide brim hat perched on her head.

“Ms. Barber!” I wave jovially and hold up the bowl. “Is it still okay for me to pop by?”

“Oh! Ri-anne! Let yourself in, dearie!” I haven’t bothered to correct her on my name. She decided she didn’t like that it was so much like the boy name, so she made it into two distinct words instead.

I flip the latch on the gate and step onto the patio. Updated stonework would make this the perfect oasis and the view is absolutely stunning. “How are you?” I bend to hug her.

She fans herself with a magazine. “Just peachy, dear.”

“I have cookie dough, the same kind as the ones I brought you last week. Remember?”

“Oh yes! Is it already after one? I must’ve lost track of time. You should pull up a chair and have a seat for a while. The nice young gentleman from down the beach has stopped by to help clean the pool and he’s quite fantastic to watch. He just went to get me a fresh lemonade. Oh!” She grabs my wrist and pulls me closer. “I have an idea. Pluck a handful of leaves from the bush over there, will you? Hurry! Before he comes back out.”

I set the bowl on the side table and gather up a few fallen leaves and petals from the garden lining the perimeter of the pool.

“Hurry, hurry!” Ms. Barber motions me back over.

“What do you want me to do with them?”

“Toss them in the pool.”

“But—”

“Just do it. Trust me.”

I give her a questioning smile, but sprinkle the leaves in the pool.

“Now come sit next to me and pretend we’ve been talking.” As soon as I’m close enough, she grabs my wrist again and pulls me into the lounger next to her. My skirt poofs up and I nearly flash my panties. At least they’re nice ones, since I plan to let Pierce take them off me—possibly with his teeth—after baking time is over and we’ve gone on our dinner date.

“Oh, here he comes. Act natural.” Ms. Barber fans her face again with the magazine.

I adjust my sunglasses and nearly choke on the mint I have stuffed in the corner of my mouth. Pierce walks across the patio, holding a pitcher of what looks like lemonade. In the other hand are a couple of glasses. But that’s not what almost has me choking to death on a mint.

He’s wearing a Speedo. A lime-green Speedo.

Ms. Barber gives my hand a squeeze. “Close your mouth, dear, and play it cool.”

My jaw snaps closed. “Dear Lord,” I mutter.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” she sighs.

“He’s something else.” I take him in, and I’m rather shameless in my perusal. I’ve seen him naked, so it’s not like I don’t already know what he looks like in less clothing than the little he’s currently sporting. But he’s glistening, as if he’s oiled or something.

“Is this the granddaughter you’re so fond of, Ms. Barber?” Pierce asks, his megawatt smile flashing at me as he sets the glasses on the table along with the pitcher.

So that’s how we’re playing it. I’m sure he can see my arched brow.

Ms. Barber giggles, much like a teenage girl, and waves her hand around before she allows it to settle on his forearm. “Now you stop it with the Ms. Barber business, you make me feel old. It’s just Muriel.”

She’s never asked me to call her by her first name. But then, I haven’t offered to oil myself up and strut around her pool in the equivalent of underwear.

“Of course, Muriel. My apologies.”

Her hand flutters around in the air. “This Ri-anne. She’s stopped by to bake some cookies with me this afternoon.”

“Is that right? I love cookies.” He extends a hand, which I have no choice but to take. His fingers slide along the center of my palm. “The sweeter the better. I’m actually really good with cookies. What kind of cookie do you have, Ri-anne, is it?”

I’m pretty sure my face is on fire. “Rian, yes. I brought sugar cookies.”

“Sugar cookies are my favorite.” He presses his lips to the back of my hand and grazes my knuckle with his teeth.