The first thing I see as I get off the plane is a big sign on the passenger terminal: WELCOME TO THE CONCH REPUBLIC.

I smile.

Sophie told me how Key West jokingly “seceded” from the United States in protest for something back in the eighties. I knew the locals enjoyed their fake independence, but I didn’t quite expect a sign at the airport.

Another surprise is that it isn’t as hot as I was bracing myself for. But it is mid-December.

It’s almost winter.

After I pass through customs, I head to the taxi line. The hotel I’m booked at is out of town and pricey, but that’s what you get when you reserve last minute. And let’s not even talk about my business-class airfare; it’s the most I’ve ever paid for a ticket. Actually, for anything. I emptied my savings account and I’m overdrawn, but I didn’t touch the estate renovation account that Seb and Raph set up.

It had felt wrong.

Climbing into the cab, I give the driver the address. Amusement flickers in his eyes, but he just drops my duffle into the trunk and drives off.

Exactly one minute later, the cabbie pulls into the front yard of a large wooden mansion with a sign that says, “Marnie’s Bed and Breakfast.”

It would’ve taken me five minutes to walk here.

“Twenty dollars,” the driver says, pointing to the price list taped to the outside of the car.

I pay, grab my duffel, and head for the entrance of the bed-and-breakfast. In my peripheral vision, I spot something unusual a couple of meters to my left. It’s a toy iguana that someone has placed under the palm tree.

Must be the local version of the garden gnome.

The iguana tilts its little head and scurries up the trunk of the tree.

Noah, you’re not in Paris anymore.

By the time I’ve checked in, showered, changed into a fresh set of clothes and returned to the lobby, it’s already dark.

“How far are we from Louie’s Backyard?” I ask the guy at the front desk.

“A twenty-minute drive. Twenty-five, tops.”

“Can you call me a cab?”

“I just tried for another customer,” he says, “but the wait is about thirty minutes right now. There’s the Poultry Farmers’ Convention—”

“Never mind. I’ll walk there.”

“It’s too far for a walk,” the concierge says. “You could rent one of our bikes.”

I could—and I do.

Any chunk of time gained at this point, even if it’s just a five-minute nugget, may change my life.

The concierge gives me directions, hands me a helmet and a lock, and sends me on my way.

It’s not until I’m riding in the dark along a narrow strip between the ocean and the highway, my eyes veiled by wind and rain, that I admit I should’ve walked.

The bike isn’t the problem—it’s me.

I’m the weak link, wasted from two consecutive flights and too little food. The receptionist said it was easy-peasy. “Just ride along the water past the AIDS Memorial, Higgs Beach, and Casa Marina until you see Louie’s Backyard.”

Maybe, instead of trusting him, I should’ve asked for a map or, at least, for a description of the AIDS Memorial. As it is, I’m riding blind, separated from the ocean on my left by a low guardrail and from the highway on my right by nothing. I have no clue where I am.

Suddenly, my front wheel meets an obstacle, and I fly off the bike and over the guardrail.

Fuck!

At least, I won’t drown, I tell myself as I fall.

Thump! Splash!

I don’t, but it isn’t thanks to my swimming skills.

It’s because my bum hits the sandy bottom of the ocean, and I topple over on my side.

The water is so shallow it barely covers me, even lying down.

I lever myself up to a sitting position and laugh, feeling both relieved and ridiculous for expecting a serious plunge.

When I push open the door of Louie’s Backyard, I’m soaked to my bones and sore in several places. Did I mention it’s nine?

I spot Sophie at a table by the window, with a well-groomed man in his early thirties. There are two empty dessert plates on the table, a check folder, and some change.

Fuck.

He must’ve proposed by now.

“Hi,” I say to both before training my gaze on Sophie. “Can we talk?”

“Noah!” She moves to stand up but then sinks back into her chair.

The man surveys me.

I stare at Sophie. Water drips from my hair and clothes, forming a puddle on the floor. All I can think of is whether I am too late or if there’s still time to talk Sophie out of marrying this guy.

He turns to her. “Who is this?”

“Someone I met in Paris,” she says, looking shaken.

He searches her face. “Should I ask him to leave?”

There’s a clear implication of potential violence in his tone, should I unwisely decline his request.

Dude, I may be drenched, but I’m still bigger than you.

My gaze is locked on Sophie’s mouth. Boy, how I’ve missed it!

I hope she says “don’t” to her beau. I pray she doesn’t say “get out!” to me.

Sophie gives him a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Doug. There’s some unfinished business Noah and I need to discuss.”

She stands up.

Doug stands too. “Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Call me if he tries anything funny,” he says.

“I will.” She marches toward the exit.

I follow her. Once outside, she continues to walk briskly. I settle into a stride next to her. Ten minutes later, we’re on an empty beach.

Sitting down, she hugs her knees and looks up at me.

I slump to the sand by her side.

“Talk,” she says with her gaze on the water.

“Did you say yes to Doug?”

She keeps looking straight ahead. “What if I did?”

Fuck.

I drop my head into my hands.

“I said no,” she breathes out.

I turn to her.

She’s looking at me now, and even in the dark, I can see the turmoil she’s going through in her eyes.

“I’m stupid,” she says. “Doug is really a perfect catch.”

“Then why did you say no?”

“I can’t imagine… making love to him.”

On impulse, I grab her hand. “I love you, Sophie.”

She blinks. “What about your amazing Uma?”

“She’s still amazing and will always be.” I lift her hand to my lips. “But she has no effect on the pace of my heart or on the stiffness of my cock.”

I press my lips to the back of her hand, remembering her skin. Ooh, the bliss. Flipping her hand over, I kiss the inside of her palm, her wrist, her fingers.

“Shouldn’t you be in Strasbourg now?” she asks.

“I should—and yet I’m here.”

She frowns. “But it’s the finals, the chance to win that gold you’ve been dreaming about—”

“We have a substitute for each player, including me. No big deal.”

The crease between her eyebrows deepens.

I exhale a long breath. “OK, here’s the truth. They might lose. If they do, they’ll hate me. Actually, they hate me already. I hate myself for walking out on them like this.”

“You shouldn’t have!”

I stare into her expressive eyes. “I have no regrets, Sophie. If you’re willing to give me another chance, I’ll quit everything and move here.”

Her eyes widen. “You would?”

“In a heartbeat.”

She tilts her head to the side, her expression still concerned.

“Maybe I can find a water polo club to join here,” I say, winking. “Or a pizza joint in need of delivery men.”

She draws closer and peers into my eyes. “You’d really do that for a second chance with me?”

I nod.

Her lips part slightly.

I lean in and claim them. Soft, full, warm. Holding her face, I sweep my tongue over her lips. She parts them, letting me in. Sweet Jesus, that taste! I drink it in, pushing my tongue deeper. Can’t get enough of her. Fifty-seven days of craving this, of starving for her, of waking up with a hard-on, furious for being torn out of the dream where I could hold her.

I’m never going without Sophie that long again.

Ever.

When we break the kiss to catch our breaths, she leans her forehead against mine and murmurs, “I’ll go to France with you.”

I draw back and study her face, incredulous.

She smiles.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

She nods. “I love you.”

I gather her to me and kiss her again, hungrily, thoroughly.

A few moments later, she draws back. There’s a mixture of surprise and elation in her beautiful eyes as she guides my hand under the hem of her dress.

I gloss my fingertips up her inner thigh until they meet the material of her panties. It’s moist. I apply more pressure, sliding my fingers a little farther.

The fabric isn’t just moist—it’s sopping wet.

If we weren’t on a public beach, I’d unzip my jeans, sit her astride my lap, and drive into her like a madman.

“Bébé,” I murmur, slipping a finger under the panties and into her hot slickness.

Her eyes roll in her head.

When she focuses on my face again, her expression is unexpectedly determined. “We need a room.”

“Will my hotel do?” I withdraw my finger.

“Yeah.” She reaches for her purse and stands. “Let’s go.”

I remain seated, waiting for my arousal to die down.

It takes time, what with Sophie’s eagerness messing with my willpower.

But that’s OK, because the urgency in her voice is a gratification in its own right. As for the hunger in her eyes, it’s worth the championship gold I forfeited by coming here.

It’s worth all the gold in the world.