Making Rachel James scream with pleasure in my treehouse was not what I’d been expecting when I left Cairo a week ago. I wasn’t quite sure how it had gotten to this point, but I was glad it had.

Last night had been incredible. The way she’d toyed with me, teasing about not wearing any panties. That woman had been strong. Flirtatious. Aware of the power she had over men. She’d finally succeeded in wiping all traces of her former, innocent self. Rachel was no longer the little girl from next door. She was all woman, and she was hot as hell.

We’d stayed in the treehouse for a long time after she came down from what had sounded like a five-alarm orgasm. I’d cradled her in my arms and stroked her hair. That in itself was different from my high school trips to the treehouse. They’d never ended in cuddling.

Of course, once I’d gotten her safely back to her house, I’d come back here and thought about her and fisted my cock until I exploded, but that wasn’t the part that I remembered. The highlight of the evening had been her. How she’d felt. How she’d responded. How she’d clung to me.

That’s what I couldn’t get out of my mind this morning.

By eleven, Rachel hadn’t shown up. Part of me wondered if she was too embarrassed after what we’d done last night. I knew she’d enjoyed it—that had been perfectly clear, but it was possible she was feeling shy about it now.

Yet somehow I didn’t think that was it. The people around this town might consider her to be a shrinking violet. Hell, maybe she thought she was, too, but I didn’t think that. Not anymore. She was a woman. A woman that knew what she wanted.

Just look at the way she’d started writing a book. It took guts to embark on something like that, something that might not be profitable for a long time if ever. She was taking a chance, but she was doing what she truly wanted to do.

I’d lived my whole life by that principle, so I admired it in her. So no, I didn’t think her absence was because she was shy. Maybe it was just my over-inflated male ego, but I was pretty sure that that orgasm had made her sleep like a baby. She’d come so hard that she almost made me come just from the way she thrashed around in my lap.

I’d bet a hundred bucks she overslept this morning.

I was so sure of it that I’d taken care not to make too much noise. I saved the jobs that required hammers and nails for the afternoon.

Deciding to take an early lunch, I fixed myself a BLT. Mom always used to make those for me. Every time I’d come to visit, she’d make BLTs and we’d sit at the kitchen table and read the newspaper as we ate. I wished I could do that with her again.

As for reading material, I glanced around, but I didn’t see any newspapers or magazines. I could’ve pulled up something on my phone, but then I remembered the essay Rachel had said I could read. I found it and read through it while I ate. My BLT wasn’t as good as the ones my mom made, but still, it hit the spot.

Rachel’s essay was about the man who ran the gas station down the road. It was well written. Insightful. Entertaining. She’d stuck to the facts for the most part, but had inserted some sly humor along the way. And it was obvious she had some skill with interviewing. She’d gotten a lot of information from Gus and put it together in a cohesive way. In a way that made you root for the man who’d lived here all his life and could barely afford to pay his mortgage.

When I was done, I popped open a beer and took it up to the spare bedroom. She’d shown me where the finished essays were, so I read another one. This one was about a woman who owned a small beauty salon. She did everything herself, the haircuts and shampooing, cleaning up, taking appointments—everything. She couldn’t afford to hire help since she only made a small profit each month.

It was fascinating—and sad. The people in this town worked hard. And that didn’t get them as far along as it used to when they were kids. Or even when I was a kid. Fairview hadn’t been a huge metropolis when I was growing up, but it’d been doing better than it was now.

Rachel appeared when I was reading the fifth one. I heard her calling me downstairs, but I stayed silent, preferring to let her find me. I smiled as I heard her carry on a silly little conversation with that silly little dog. Once she took Lulu out, she made her way up the stairs. She bounded into the room and stopped when she saw me with my feet up on her desk.

“There you are. I thought maybe you’d gone back to lock up the treehouse and gotten trapped there or something.”

I said nothing, but stared at her for a moment. She looked incredible. As if there were a new glow about her somehow. She had on jeans shorts—not the tiny little ones she’d teased me with the other day, but ones that came down to mid-thigh. And she had on a pink shirt with ruffles, of all things. The shirt was innocent, but she wasn’t. I knew that now—and was grateful for it.

“I overslept,” she said, setting her bag down next to the desk. “Did you? And did you…” She trailed off as she saw the pile of essays on my lap. “You read those?”

I nodded. I was interested to see what she’d do. Would she be worried about my reaction? Pissed I read more than she’d told me I could? Pleased that I’d paid attention to her work?

But she did none of those. She just looked me in the eye and said, “What do you think?”

For some reason, her reaction pleased me. She’d proven to me last night that she wasn’t a little girl anymore, but still, I sometimes reverted to thinking of her that way. But she’d been a wild woman last night, and today she was every inch the professional woman—asking another professional his opinion.

She was a mature adult which made me feel a lot better about the things we’d done together—and the things I hoped we’d do in the future.

Yes, she was definitely mature.

However, I wasn’t. Not always.

So I made her wait.

I set the essays on the table and stood up. I moved in on her, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her toward me. Then I dipped my head and kissed her, long and hard. The kind of kiss that made the world melt away. The kind of kiss that made people forget everything except their own name.

And when I released her, she looked up at me with a dazed smile, biting her swollen lower lip.

“They’re really good.”

“Good?” she echoed, still a bit out of it. I loved that I could do that to her.

“Your essays.”

“Oh!” Her smile returned. “Thank you.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

She sat at the table while I fixed her another BLT. And while I did so, I told her my opinion of her essays. That they were good. Interesting. Really showed people’s daily struggles to make ends meet.

She listened, nodding. And when I finished my assessment, I could tell she knew there was more. “But?”

I set the sandwich in front of her and sat down beside her. “People who read it are going to enjoy it. Nonfiction readers. People who enjoy history. People who read newspapers. That’s not a huge subset of the population, but those people are out there. The problem is making sure they know that your book is out there, too.”

“So how do I do that?”

“That’s the issue. There are thousands of new books published every day. Even if you find a publisher, there’s no guarantee they can get you much shelf space. Or publicity.”

Rachel took a bite of her sandwich and chewed while she thought about it. I’d been right about her level of maturity. She was taking the news well. Thinking it through. She wasn’t going to give up.

“So how can I give my book a better shot?”

“For one, you can rethink the medium. Why not publish this as a series of articles online? It could reach far more people than the ones willing to pay for a hardcover book.”

She nodded, lost in thought. “Maybe I could post one or two of the essays as a teaser for the rest of the book.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. With the right website and the right contacts, it might help. “But why not the whole thing?”

“It just feels like it’s supposed to be a book. I know that’s an old school idea with all the media formats available nowadays. But the subject matter is old school, too. Small towns and the people who live there.”

Her answer made me smile. She knew what she wanted and was determined to get it. We talked it over for a few more minutes until she was done with her sandwich. Then I proposed my idea.

“If you’re sure you want to stick with a book format, then I think there should be one major change.”

“What’s that?” There was a tomato seed on the corner of her mouth. I reached out and wiped it with my finger. Before I could draw back, she flicked her tongue over the tip of my finger, and the tomato seed was no more.

Shit, this woman was sexy.

“Your book needs photos.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I was planning on having a few. And the cover, obviously. I was thinking maybe Gus with his station in the background—”

“Not just a few pictures. It needs pictures of everything. Gus at his shop. Carol sweeping the floor of her salon. The guys at the bar who used to work at the factory before it closed. You need photos of all of that.”

Rachel stared past me, evidently thinking hard. “I’m not sure all of them would want to be photographed.”

“Most will. If they were willing to spend that long talking to you, I bet they would. I’ve got a template of a photo consent form you can use.”

She nodded, her attention returning to me. “And you’ll take the photos?”

It was more of a statement than a question. “I’d be happy to.”

Her murmured thanks did little to mask her concern. “I just… I don’t want this to become a coffee-table book. It’s supposed to be a collection of essays, not a picture book.”

Reaching out, I took her hand. “I know this project is your baby. And you’ve done all the work by yourself. But any agent worth his salt would tell you that this is the right step. This is what’ll get eyes on your books. The pictures.”

“Pictures from a well-known photographer, you mean.”

“I’m not going to lie. That’s going to be a selling point. And I can write the foreword, too.”

She was silent. Thoughtful. “It’s a really kind offer.”

“This book is your dream—I get that. But at some point you’d have to give up a little of the control anyway. Your editor, the cover designer, the proofer, the people who do the layout… they’ll all have a say, too. Even if you don’t use photos, it’s not going to stay one hundred percent your vision.”

“That’s true. God, this is an incredible offer. I don’t know why it feels like giving in.”

“It’s not. It’s taking things up to the next level. If you tried to hire an illustrator or photographer on your own, there’s no way you could afford to do that.”

She smiled a bit at that. “So you’re saying that you’re cheap labor?”

“Hell no. I’m gonna make you pay.”

Her smile widened, thinking I meant something dirty. But for once, I was being fairly good. “I’ve only got a little over a month left here. These photos are going to take a lot of time, to set up, to shoot, to develop. It’s going to cut into my time here.”

“I can help,” she said quickly. “But I don’t know how to use tools like you do.”

“That’s what I was counting on. There’s a lot of stuff you can do. Painting. Clearing away some of my mother’s things. Setting the house up to be shown. If we do that together, we’ll have time to work on your book together.”

She was definitely warming to the idea. “I think we can make it work.”

“It’s not all going to be smooth sailing. We’re likely to disagree from time to time on the photos. And I can get pretty damn bossy when it comes to photography.”

She grinned. “I enjoyed you being bossy last night.”

“Me too,” I said, reaching out and tugging on a strand of her hair. “But I can get pretty bossy about home repair, too.”

“Are you going to micromanage when I paint a wall?”

“Nope,” I said with a wink. “But I am going to insist you wear those short shorts and that halter top you wore the other day. Without any underwear.”

She laughed.

“So, do we have a deal?”

“We do.” She held out her hand, but to my mind, that was a lame way to seal this deal. So when I grasped her hand, I pulled her to her feet, picked her up, and set her on the kitchen counter. Pushing her knees apart, I stepped in between her legs and ran my hands through her hair. Pulling her close, I kissed her long and hard.

“Good,” I said when I released her. “Let’s get to work.”