Inside was a golden-yellow tart, its custard so smooth and glossy it shone in the kitchen light like a little sun. A tiny whipped-cream heart sat in the center of the tart with a single rosemary leaf spearing the delicate center.

Delighted, I took the tart out and set it on a plate. It was almost too pretty to eat, and my diet certainly didn’t need more sweets in it, but I remembered the rich caramel-and-cream delight of the afternoon’s treats and couldn’t resist.

The custard cleanly parted for my spoon, the crust crumbling just a little. Closing my eyes, I pushed the spoon past my lips and groaned. Tart-sweet lemon, bright as the dawn, played with delicate cream and a butter-rich crust. Perfectly balanced, it slid over my tongue like a kiss, played along the sides in an elusive tease, prompting me to take another bite.

Hovered over the countertop, I ate that tart with my eyes closed, bite after luscious bite. Letting it fill my senses.

It wasn’t normal, getting emotional about dessert, but I found myself tearing up. It tasted oddly like hope, that tart. Like maybe everything would be okay if things like this existed in the world.

Someone put all their skill and care into something that wasn’t meant to last but was to be enjoyed in the moment. In return, I felt cared for too.

My spoon hit the empty plate, and I opened my eyes with a whimper. I refused to lick the plate. But then caved and swiped my finger across it to catch a last bit of custard. Sucking on my finger, I put the plate in the sink, then grabbed the thick wrap sweater I’d left on the chair.

I needed air after a treat like that. Still emotional but also content, I stepped out onto the balcony that jutted out from my bedroom. From my vantage point, I could clearly see the pool directly below.

With the pool lights on, it glowed a deep turquoise in the darkness. Wisps of steam rising from the water made it clear the pool was heated, and I thought briefly about going down for a swim. But I was too sated to move.

The view was enchanting. Lanterns marked the paths winding through the gardens. Édith Piaf drifted out, mournful and bittersweet, into the balmy night. Resting my arms on the balcony rail, I listened to “La Vie en Rose,” and it almost felt as though I was in a classic movie. I could see the screenplay now:

EXT. OLD CALIFORNIA ESTATE—NIGHT

Young woman stares wistfully out into the night. A sweater hangs around her shoulders, warding off the chill.

I was so caught up in the fantasy I almost missed the movement in the shadows by the pool. A man stepped into the light and stared at the water. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt of some dark color, he had his back to me. But I recognized his height and the breadth of those strong shoulders instantly. Lucian.

He set down a toolbox by the pool ladder and took out a screwdriver to tighten the bolts around the base. With that done, he set the toolbox aside and stood to stretch his muscles before lowering his arms.

While I stared at him, he stared at the water, as though it might give him an answer. To what, I had no idea, but a trickle of concern crept along my back. Because he seemed lost. I could be entirely wrong about that, but it was part of my craft to study body language. His was fairly screaming defeat.

Standing a bit straighter, I wondered if I should call out to him. But what to say? I hadn’t a clue. I should leave him to his privacy. I was about to do just that.

Then he moved.

All thought flew from my mind when he pulled the shirt from over his head, revealing the elegant sweep of his back, the hard-packed muscles rippling under smooth skin. Arms, chiseled like a god’s, reached down and . . .

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” I murmured fervently.

He pushed his jeans off and bared an ass that was, frankly, spectacular. Those tight globes flexed as he kicked the jeans away with one long leg.

Turn away. Get out of here.

I shouldn’t look. I coveted my privacy, and I was blatantly watching Lucian strip naked. He deserved his privacy too. But I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t move. He was . . . glorious. My fingers gripped the railing, holding on tight.

The light of the pool gave his skin an unworldly greenish cast. He rolled his shoulders . . . unf . . . and then dove in. The water rippled outward in his wake. I actually shivered with lust as I tracked him along the bottom of the pool, a pale arrow of flesh darting through the turquoise glow.

Silently, he surfaced on the far side of the pool, then neatly turned to do laps. Perfect form. Long strong arms. Clean, steady strokes.

Édith Piaf kept singing as Lucian set a steady but brutal pace. He went at it lap after lap. I grew fairly dizzy with rude thoughts about his stamina. The night was cool, but my flesh was hot. God, that water looked so good. I could practically feel it running over my fevered skin.

My heart thudded against my ribs in time to the beat of his arms slicing through the water with a chuff, chuff, chuff. I didn’t blink. I fooled myself into thinking I had to keep watching over him. Make sure he was okay.

The thinnest of excuses. But there was something about the way he attacked the water, the way his body moved, that could not be ignored.

“Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” began to play when he finally stopped, resting his arms at the closer end of the pool. He floated there, for a few seconds, catching his breath maybe. Water dripped from his hair into his face.

I should go. I need to go.

In a moment.

Music swelled over the night, proud, hopeful, bittersweet.

I felt it all around me. All around him. And, in that moment, I ached for Lucian. I didn’t know why he hurt, or what drove him. But I wanted to put my arms around those broad shoulders and hold on.

Then he planted his big hands on the side of the pool and, with an effortless push, thrust himself up and out of the water.

“Sweet mercy . . .” My knees went weak, and I gripped the rail to keep from falling over. Oh, Édith, I don’t regret anything either.

His body was a Bernini sculpture come to life—Triton looking down on mere mortals. Water sluiced over rippling planes of muscles, trickled down dips and cut grooves, heading straight toward . . .

His dick. Even from far away, it was impressive. Long and thick with a wide head and plump balls. My lips parted, heat flushing my cheeks, and my nipples tightened.

Lucian ran his hands through his dripping hair, pushing the shining dark mass back from his clean, strong face. Not pretty or model handsome. He was too blunt for that, all hard lines and aggression. But beautiful just the same.

And bleak. My happy bits cooled off. His expression was utterly bleak. Cold as ice. I could wax poetic about his looks all night, but it wouldn’t change the fact that this man was ultimately a stranger. One who was remote and closed off as a frozen wall. I grew up with men who wore that expression. I’d run from those men. And today, he’d all but run from me. I needed to remember that and keep my distance.