For a moment Noah’s eyes burn into mine, intense. He shifts closer to me, ever so slightly, and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something.

And then he blinks and looks away.

When he turns back to me a few seconds later, his expression is unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Feel free to gag me before I make another highly inappropriate comment.”

I pull a face. “Gagging is so Fifty Shades. How about duct tape?”

“Really?” He frowns and shrugs. “If that’s what floats your boat…”

“Did you pack any, by chance?”

He shakes his head.

I sigh. “In that case, there’s only one thing left to do.”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“Sleep.”

“Good idea.” He jumps up. “I’m going to open the bivvy and move the blanket inside, if you don’t mind.”

I stand up, too. “Won’t we be too warm inside?”

“Don’t worry.” He unfolds the contraption which turns out to be a narrow one-person tent. “See the mesh on the sides? Keeps bugs out but lets air in.”

I tip my head back and close my eyes hoping for a night breeze, but the air is as still and sultry as it was at midday.

“Not sure we want this air in,” I say.

“The temperature will drop soon.”

Opening my eyes, I glance at the bivvy. “It’s going to be tight in there.”

“Are you an aggressive sleeper?”

I smile. “I don’t jump, kick, or snore in my sleep if that’s what you mean.”

“Me neither.” Noah throws a small pillow into the bivvy. “We’ll be fine.”

He steps out of his flip-flops and climbs inside.

I remove my sandals. This is crazy. As in, crazy exciting.

When I crawl in, Noah has moved as far to the left as the tent allows, leaving me half of the available space and the whole pillow.

I turn to him, propping myself up. “Can you sleep without a pillow?”

He glances at it and then at me as if considering his options. “You’re right. I’ll need something.”

Sitting up, he pulls off his T-shirt, folds it, and lies back down, tucking it under his head.

My lips part as I take in the glorious triangle of his torso.

Frigid or not, all that smooth, hard, chiseled manliness—this close—makes an impression.

Stop ogling his chest, Sophie!

I look at his hands instead. “They’re big.”

Shoot. Did I just say that out loud?

“You mean my hands?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.”

He lifts his right hand and splays his fingers. “Having big hands is an asset for a water polo goalie. As is a large body size, arm span, speed of reaction, and a firm grip.”

A firm grip. I swallow.

“Reaction speed is probably the most important feature,” Noah says. “A shorter goalie who’s explosive will get into the corners faster and block better than a big goalie who’s slow.”

“So, the ideal is a big explosive goalie, right?”

“Right.”

I give him a wink. “Which is where you come in.”

He smiles, blushing a little.

Aww. Could this man get any sweeter? I need a joke before my heart melts into a sticky mess. Any dumb crack will do.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” I say, “but water polo players look a little funny.”

“Funny how?”

“You know, with those bonnets tied neatly under your chins. And your chests are shaved…”

“It’s to reduce drag and increase speed.”

“Of course. But still…” I give him a sly smile. “It does reinforce the look.”

“What look?”

My gaze flicking to his nipples, I mutter, “Baby look.”

“Really?”

“Come on,” I nudge him. “Can you deny that water polo players look like babies? Huge, muscular, testosterone-fueled babies.”

“Sophie.” He arches an eyebrow in fake admonishment. “That was sexist and highly inappropriate.”

I drop my head to my chest to show I regret my words. Which I don’t. Not for a second.

“What’s the word for a macho woman?” he asks.

“Hmm… Man-eater?”

He shakes his head.

“Femdom?” I try again.

“Warmer, but still off the mark.”

“Butch?”

He sighs. “I’ll have to write a letter to the Académie Française urging them to coin a word for women like you.”

“Knock yourself out,” I say.

“I’m going to propose femcho.”

I snort. “That sounds perfectly ridiculous. Makes me think of that fluffy poncho I bought a few years back and never dared to wear.”

“Hmm…” He rubs his chin, drawing my attention to the bulging muscles of his upper arm.

“Femcho accusations aside, how do you guys get so fit?” I ask.

He smiles. “We swim at least 2,000 meters during each workout, lift weights for body strength, and stretch for flexibility. Um… what else? We practice shooting and treading water until our arms and legs fall off. You know, the usual ‘testosterone-fueled baby’ stuff.”

If I look at his mouth or his torso a second longer, I might squeal. Or make another inane comment. Or reach over and touch him.

Truth is, I have no idea what I might do because I’ve never felt this way before.

“Right.” I turn away from Noah. “Do you think this light will go off at some point? I find it hard to fall asleep unless it’s completely dark.”

“Don’t know,” he says. “Never slept in a park before.”

“I need to be at the office early. Do you mind if I set my phone alarm to seven thirty?”

“Mine is set to seven,” he says. “I don’t want to be late for the morning practice.”

“Good night.”

“Sweet dreams.”

I breathe in the faint scent of Noah’s aftershave and shut my eyes. The lawn where we’re camping is a lot quieter now than it was half an hour ago, with almost everyone around us having crept into their tents and sleeping bags. I should be able to fall asleep easily.

Fifteen minutes later, I turn toward Noah again.

He’s still flat on his back with his eyes wide open.

“The mesh on the other side lets too much light in,” I say to justify my change of position.

He turns on his side to face me, folds his right arm under his head, and places his left hand between us, a bare inch from my breasts.

The heat coming off him and the scent of his skin—a touch of aftershave and a lot of Noah—messes with my brain. They take my thoughts and my senses to a place that’s entirely new to me. I feel like I was beamed into a rain forest. It’s hot, lush and full of surprises.

And scary.

“There’s this theory in quantum physics,” I say, scrambling to find my bearings.

He gives a crooked smile. “My fair landlady is a closet geek?”

“Not at all.” I chuckle. “I just stumbled upon an article a few years back, and it stayed with me.”

“What’s it about?”

“The mechanics of touch,” I say. “According to quantum physics, you can never really touch anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything is composed of tiny particles, right?”

He nods.

“Particles repel other particles of the same kind,” I say. “For example, when you sit in a chair, you’re actually hovering above it.”

He furrows his brow. “Then why did my ass always feel sore after sitting in a chair through a double period at school?”

“If I remember correctly,” I say with a smile, “it’s because the waves you generate overlap with the chair’s waves, and your brain misinterprets it as touching.”

“So if I do this,”—he puts his hand on my hip—“I’m not actually touching you. Is that what you’re saying?”

I swallow, trying to keep the smile on my face. “Yes.”

He lets his fingers and the ball of his palm gently sink into my flesh without pressing or rubbing. With every second that passes, I feel my body respond to his hand hug. Through the thin silk of my dress, my skin tingles, and the flesh under his hand begins to burn.

Suddenly, the mischievous gleam in his eyes gives way to an entirely different expression.

My smile slips, too.

What’s happening to me?

How did I go from pondering if I should date Zach earlier this evening to wondering which direction Noah will move his hand—up to cup my breast or down to stroke my thigh. And how my body would react to it. And whether my need for him to do that is bigger than my fear.

What if this excitement I’m feeling isn’t real and has nothing to do with a normal arousal a normal woman would feel? What if it’s just wishful thinking? I may believe I’m aroused, but what will happen when he touches me more intimately? Will the illusion melt into thin air? Will my body stiffen with revulsion, just like it’s done before?

The ironic truth is I’d be less anxious if I felt nothing—I’d know what to expect.

But with my body acting so out of character, setting my expectations high and giving me hope, it’s just too scary.

“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” I say, butterflies in my stomach.

He doesn’t respond for the longest moment with his hand on my waist and his eyes riveted to mine.

“That’s OK,” he finally says. “We should try to get some sleep.”

Nodding with relief, I turn my back to Noah and push the pillow to the middle, offering him half of it. “I doubt it’s comfortable sleeping on a folded tee.”

He draws closer, laying his head on the pillow. I feel his warm breath on the back of my neck.

“Do you mind if I put my hand back where it was?” he asks.

“Suit yourself.”

His hand returns to my waist and slides over to my belly. Should I tell him off for taking more than he was given? While I’m mulling over that question, he shifts, wrapping his entire arm around me and pulling me closer.

This is so much more than the authorized hand-on-waist that I lose my tongue momentarily.

Next thing I know he’s pressing his chest against my back and snaking a leg over my thigh.

“Good night, Sophie,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Recovering from my stupor, I finally move. But, instead of drawing away, I arch my body into him, looking for an additional point of contact.

There it is! The hard ridge I’d felt the day we first met when he’d tackled me in his kitchen. I love its length and thickness and the way it nestles against my derriere.

How shocking.

How totally inexplicable and sexy.

“Good night,” I rasp, barely recognizing my voice.

What does the quantum theory have to say about this, I wonder? For years, it’s been my handy justification for not reacting to a man’s touch. Except I’m reacting all right to Noah’s. Let’s face it—I may not be as frigid as I thought.

How else can I explain that at the ripe age of twenty-four, and against all expectations, Princess Sophie was suddenly roused from her sexuality-free slumber?

I wish my savior were Zach the Successful Entrepreneur.

Or—even better—some hotshot business shark in Florida. But instead, it’s Delivery Man Noah… Damn! Why did I have to be awakened by a guy who, on top of having neither money nor ambition, possibly nurtures a longtime crush on his childhood bestie?

How fucking ironic is that?