“Sorry about that,” he said, returning to me and the glass of wine he’d abandoned when he seemed to feel that his dogs were clean enough. He’d switched off the water, and the dogs had trotted off to different sections of the deck to shake themselves dry. “Where were we?”

“Uh,” I said. “I don’t remember,” even though I did. You’d been about to kiss me.

And I’d been about to let you.

But before Drew could reply, Socks came slinking shyly over to us, one of the yellow tennis balls in his mouth. His black-and-white body was low to the ground in case his action garnered the wrath of his new owner—that was, after all, the kind of reaction he was used to—but his long, fringed white tail wagged slowly as he looked up at us, his dark eyes filled simultaneously with both hope and anxiety that one of us would take the ball from his mouth and throw it.

“Oh my God,” I said, looking down at the sadly abused dog. “I think I’m going to cry.”

“Yeah. He’s a good boy.” Drew reached down and took the ball from Socks’s mouth, casually—but affectionately—giving the dog a stroke on the head as he did so. “Get the ball, Bob.”

He tossed the ball to the far end of the deck, and Socks took off after it, his sleek body uncoiling like a spring, all muscle and joy.

“You can’t call them all Bob,” I insisted as I watched the dog expertly catch the ball in midair—probably one of the first times in his life he’d ever engaged in a game of one-on-one catch. “They really do each have their own unique personalities. Just because your parents named you and your sister basically the same thing doesn’t mean you have to do that to your dogs.”

“Are you sure it was law school you dropped out of and not psychiatry school?”

“Very funny.”

Socks brought the ball back and dropped it at Drew’s feet, dancing there excitedly, hoping he’d throw it again—which of course he did. Socks took off, as joyously as before, while the other dogs yawned and gazed at the newcomer disdainfully. They’d had their game of catch and were ready for supper.

“Are you sure you’re not just too lazy to think up individual names for them?”

“Too lazy?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s pretty harsh for someone who claims we aren’t supposed to judge people who left their pets behind during a hurricane.”

“Point taken. But it would be pretty easy to personalize their names. This one”—I’d put my wine on the deck railing and was petting Socks, since he’d brought me the ball—“could be Bobby Socks.”

Drew groaned.

“And the beagle could be Bobby Sue, since she’s a girl.”

Drew threw me a disbelieving look. “I’m not renaming my dogs.”

“It’s not really renaming them. It’s just individualizing their names. The little terrier could be Bobby Lee. And the big one could be—”

Drew turned, grabbed me by both shoulders, and pulled me against him, dropping his lips to mine. For a second, I was so startled, I wasn’t sure what was happening. Then I realized he was kissing me.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Florida Fish & Wildlife Conservation Commission reports that a preliminary estimate of vessels that are derelict, lost, or abandoned off Little Bridge Island stands at 506. If a boat is missing, the owner should file a report with the Sheriff’s Office so the vessel can be added to a database to make return easier if it is found.

And what a kiss. This was no platonic kiss between friends. It wasn’t even like the kiss I’d given him earlier in the day when I’d been so glad to see that he was alive.

This was the hunger-filled kiss of a lover who’d been waiting—and thinking about—doing this for a long time. This was the kiss of someone who was trying to be gentle but had held back long enough and couldn’t restrain himself any longer. This wasn’t like any of the kisses I’d received from dates in the past. Those had been the kisses of boys.

This was the kiss of a man.

His hands went from my shoulders to my waist, pulling me so close, I could feel every inch of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt . . . and his shorts. And what I felt there didn’t belong to a boy, either. It was thick and hard and insistent—just like his hands, slipping under my top. My nipples went instantly stiff beneath his work-roughened fingers.

“Drew,” I moaned, when he lifted his lips from mine for a moment. “Do you have any—”

He was breathing as hard as I was, his voice an unsteady rasp. “You bet I do.”

“Thank God.”

Then his hands went from my breasts to my waist as he hoisted me physically into the air, the dogs dancing around us, barking excitedly.

“Drew!” I threw my arms around his neck and my head back, laughing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this happy. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to my bed, of course.” As the dogs barked more feverishly, he shouted, “Down, Bobs! Down!”

This only made me laugh harder. I knew I shouldn’t. What if he was extremely serious about his lovemaking and got upset that I found anything about his technique—even his rambunctious dogs—amusing?

But it was impossible not to laugh when I was filled with so much joy, especially as he attempted to carry me romantically through his living area and down a hallway toward his bedroom—but nearly tripped several times over tools he’d left lying on the floor. Since the sun had sunk so low, and there was no electricity, the interior of his home was shrouded in semidarkness.

“Damn it,” he cursed each time his foot came in contact with a screwdriver or an awl.

“Drew.” I buried my head in his neck, trying to stifle a giggle. “I can walk. Put me down.”

“No.” His hold on me tightened. “I can do this!”

Finally we made it to the master bedroom, which was as sparsely furnished as the living room, save for a massive, gray-sheeted king-sized bed. This was where he deposited me.

“There,” he said when I was safely on the mattress. “Now wait here.”

What he wanted me to wait for, apparently, was for him to corral the dogs out of the bedroom. He closed every door leading back into the room, so they couldn’t follow him—though they tried to, desperately.

Fortunately there was still a cool breeze coming into the room from the ocean via a large overhead skylight that he’d left open just above the bed. Through it, I could see the last orange rays of the setting sun arcing across the lavender sky . . . and the far-off white light of the evening’s first star. I gazed at that white light, welcoming it like a beacon of hope . . . my hope for a chance to start again.

“Now,” Drew said as he turned from the door. “We finally have some privacy.”

My heart gave a lurch as he came toward me out of the darkness . . . but it wasn’t an unpleasant lurch. It was filled with anticipatory excitement about what was about to happen.

“Yeah,” I said. “Your roommates are cute, but a little demanding.”

“I know, right?” Drew sat down on the bed beside me, his large hand going to rest on top of my thigh as his lips sought mine. “I’m glad we got rid of them.”