I can’t remember the last time I was this excited for a date.

Even though this isn’t a date, I keep reminding myself. It’s just food before sex.

Before wild, hot, no-holds-barred, baby-making sex.

Dylan and I are really going to do it! We’re going biking without a helmet, sky-diving without a parachute. Except that instead of having a horrible accident or plummeting to our deaths, there might be a baby at the end of our time together.

Maybe even by the end of tonight…

Just the thought of it is enough to make my heart race and my entire body flush with anticipation. Who knew trying to conceive could be so sexy? Back when Jeremy and I were trying, the sex was good, but I never felt anything like this giddy, spastic, about-to-burst-with-excitement feeling that’s had my head spinning all day long.

Even while giving the early-bird Parsons—lovely couple, terrible timing—their tour, I had to fight the urge to burst out into a spontaneous dance party or shout something highly inappropriate like, “Get out of my way, bitches, mama’s going to get some tonight!”

Yes, it’s been seven months since I got laid, so I’m sure that’s part of what has me feeling floatier than a bottle of pinot for dinner, but most of it is just…Dylan.

Dylan, who kisses with a single-minded intensity that leaves no doubt he’s going to be the best lover I’ve ever had. Dylan, who looks at me like he wants to devour me whole, in one ravenous gulp, making me feel so sexy and desired that I don’t stress about what I should wear to dinner. No matter what it is, Dylan is going to want to rip it off of me and make love all night long.

No, not make love. Make a baby, make whoopee, make a trip to Intercourse, Pennsylvania. Love has nothing to do with what you and Dylan are going to get up to in your bed tonight.

“And that’s just fine,” I tell my reflection as I smooth on a coat of lipstick and head out the door to grab my bike.

I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m a grown woman, making a grown woman’s decision. I’m not a hussy or a harlot or an unlovable loser because I’m treating sex like a business arrangement for once in my life. Besides, it’s not like either Dylan or I are doing something we don’t want to do, just for the sake of babies or land. It’s clear every time we touch that we’re going to enjoy getting naked together very much.

Hell, even the eye contact is combustible.

I’m getting off my bike in the back parking lot at Domenica’s Italian Roadhouse when Dylan pulls in. I look up, and our gazes collide with enough heat to grill half a dozen artichoke and feta cheese pizzas, and I smile, fighting a laugh as he swings out of his truck and heads my way.

“What’s funny, Blondie?” he asks, the sizzle still in his eyes.

“Nothing,” I say, then confess in a giddy whisper, “I’m just excited about getting naked with you.”

He laughs even as his expression goes from sizzling to smoldering. “Me, too. You always say what’s on your mind?”

“Usually,” I confess. “My sister says I have poor social skills from spending a decade glued to a computer screen.”

“I like your social skills. Pretty excited about getting naked with you, too.” He wraps his arm around my waist, leaning down to kiss my cheek before he whispers into my ear, “You look amazing in these jeans, but you’re going to look even better out of them. Want to get dinner to go, throw your bike in the back of my truck, and head back to your place? If we talk while we wait for food, that’s enough getting to know each other, right?”

I nod, my breath rushing out as my fingers dig lightly into his biceps, those thick, powerful muscles I can’t wait to have bared to my touch. “Yes. Food to go is an excellent idea. You’re brilliant.”

He laugh-growls again as he hugs me closer. “Not brilliant; suffering. I’ve been hard for you all day. You’re all I could think about.”

“Me, too.” I take a steadying breath as I pull back to look into his eyes. “It’s kind of nice knowing how the night’s going to end, isn’t it?”

“Very,” he agrees. “No games.”

“Or stress. Or wondering whether your lace thong is going to be appreciated or you’re enduring fabric in uncomfortable places all night long for nothing.”

“Lace thong.” He curses softly, his jaw muscle clenching tight. “Pizza. To go. Now. Before I toss your fine ass in my truck and take off without provisions.”

Fighting another giddy grin—I can’t wait to be tossed anywhere he wants to toss me, but I’ve also barely eaten all day—I start up the paving stone path. Out front, the porch is already filling with people waiting for tables, playing checkers or chess on boards painted on old wine barrels while they wait. We step up to the hostess stand and place our takeout order before staking out a bench to wait by the antique tractor that decorates the front lawn. The hour is early, but the air is already thick with the smell of smoked mozzarella, basil, and Domenica’s unique creamy tomato sauce.

Soon, my stomach starts to rumble. Loudly.

Dylan nudges my shoulder with his. “You going to make it fifteen minutes?”

“Maybe.” I roll my eyes as my stomach lets out another mournful howl. “Maybe not. If I die from hunger before we get back to my place, I’m going to come back from the dead just to slap myself for forgetting to eat regularly.”

Dylan squeezes my hand. “I’ll keep you distracted until the pizza gets here. Want to hear a story about that tractor?”

“I would love to hear a story about that tractor. My sister makes fun of me for being a farm nerd, but I enjoyed my tractor class at the junior college. Gave me a new appreciation for farm machinery.”

He arches a brow. “Is that right? You can drive a tractor? A city slicker like you?”

“I can drive three different kinds of tractors and dig a ditch with a backhoe.” I meet his gaze, narrowing my eyes as I nod. “Yeah, it’s okay. You can be impressed. I’m pretty impressive.”

“You are,” he says with a tip of his head. “I’ve clearly been underestimating your skills.”

“It’s okay. I forgive you. Considering you saved my harvest last night and apologized so sweetly for being a jerk and all.”

His lips curve into a crooked line. “Yeah, well, I really am sorry about that. It’s been a rough couple of years, but that’s no excuse for forgetting my manners.”

I drop the teasing tone. “I heard about your dad. But the cancer is in remission now? He’s doing okay?”

“He’s great. Physically.” Dylan stretches his arms out along the back of the bench. “But he still hasn’t forgiven me for ripping out our vines and planting hops instead. We were grape farmers for over a hundred years. He feels like I betrayed the Hunter family legacy, spit on my ancestors’ graves, et cetera.”

“But you were just doing what you thought was best, right?”

He sighs. “I was doing what I had to do to keep paying the bills. Our entire vineyard was infected with Pierce disease. Everything had to come out, and it would have taken money and time we didn’t have to spare to put disease-resistant vines back in.”

“Right, Pierce disease.” My cheeks flush. “Bart told me that’s why you pulled out the blackberry vines close to my property line. To reduce the chance of Pierce disease spreading to our side of the trail. I owe you an apology for being difficult about that.”

He grins that cocky grin of his. “Apology accepted. Just trying to be a good neighbor, Blondie.”

“You are a good neighbor.” I return his smile. “Every time I run into Mr. Stroker, he always sings your praises. Says you’re the grandson he never had.”

Dylan grunts with an exaggerated scowl. “But he still agreed to consider your bid, the greedy old bastard. Let’s see if he still loves me after I let him haul in that crop alone this year.”

“You wouldn’t,” I say, hoping I’m right. If not, I’ll have to hire someone to help the old man. I don’t want him getting hurt or losing profits because I started a bidding war.

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Of course I wouldn’t. He’s eighty-five. If he dropped dead throwing pumpkins onto a flat bed, I’d never forgive myself.”

I shake my head, warmth spreading through my chest as I study Dylan’s face. “Watch out, Hunter. I’m beginning to think this grumpy exterior of yours is a thin shell covering a sweet, soft, gooey center.”

“There’s nothing soft or gooey about me, Haverford.” He dips his lips closer to mine as he adds, “And I’m going to prove it as soon as I get you alone.”

My breath rushes out as another wave of longing surges across my skin to pool between my legs. “How can it take this long to cook a pizza?”

“I don’t know, but at least we distracted your stomach.”

“But you still haven’t told me the tractor story.” I pat his thigh then leave my hand where it is because—muscles. And more muscles. Holy quadriceps, I can’t wait to trace every cut on his phenomenal body with my tongue.

“Sorry, I’m easily sidetracked.” He nods toward the tractor. “When my brother Rafe and I were kids, that’s the tractor they used to pull the winning float down Main Street during the Harvest Parade. Our 4H club won every year because we were committed to excellence in all things—especially things that bagged you a trophy and attention from girls.”

I grin. “You had your priorities in order, is what you’re saying.”

“Exactly.” He nudges my shoulder with his again in a way that warms me all over. It feels like something he would do with a real friend, not just a woman he’s going to bang for fun, land, and babies, and I’m starting to think I’d enjoy counting Dylan among my friends. “But when we were in eighth grade, the Russian River Boy Scouts beat us out. Their scout leader was on the judging committee and swung the rest of the sell-outs his way with free tickets to see a monster truck exhibition.”

I make a scandalized sound. “Bribes and coercion. That doesn’t sound very boy-scoutly to me.”

“Not at all,” Dylan agrees, warming to his story. “Rafe and I were pissed. So we decided to teach the bastards a lesson.”

“You toilet papered the boy scouts’ houses?”

“Hell, no,” he scoffs. “We had three growing boys in our house back then. We couldn’t afford to waste toilet paper. And we were 4H kids, so we were resourceful and knew our way around farm equipment.”

“Uh-oh,” I say, already seeing where this is going.

He grins. “The night before the parade, we snuck into the garage where they stored the floats and put bleach in the tractor’s fuel tank. Come time for the big moment, the tractor wouldn’t start, and the Boy Scouts’ winning float never got its victory lap down Main Street.”

“Served them right. But I’m betting the owner of the tractor wasn’t too happy.”

“Oh, Mr. Caputo was pissed.” Dylan laughs beneath his breath. “Somehow, Dad figured out that Rafe and I were responsible—he always had a sixth sense about shit like that—so he made us mow Caputo’s lawn for the next three years for free. Even though the tractor was already ancient, even back then, and probably not worth more than a couple hundred bucks.”

“Wow.” My eyes go wide. “Three years? That’s pretty harsh.”

“We would probably still be mowing it for free if Mr. Caputo hadn’t moved to Texas. Dad has zero tolerance for destruction of property.” He shrugs. “And I’m sure part of it was to keep us too busy to get into trouble. Having two teen boys the same age isn’t easy. My nephews have taught me that.”

I look up at him, frowning as I bring up a visual of the teen boys I’ve seen zipping up and down the bike trail on their way to friends’ houses. They’re identical twins, but Rafe and Dylan certainly aren’t. “So, you and Rafe are twins, too? I would never have imagined. You’re so different.”

Dylan’s grin takes on a wry edge. “No. We’re two months apart.”

I draw a blank for a moment before understanding dawns. “Oh. I see. So…different mothers obviously.”

“Yeah, my mom was the other woman. I didn’t come to live with Pop until I was older, but after that, Rafe and I were pretty much inseparable.”

I’m about to ask him if his mother was in the picture at all—a question too intimate for a friend with benefits—when the hostess calls his name, saving me from crossing the line. I’m going to have to be careful. It was easy to keep my emotional distance from grumpy Dylan, who teased the shit out of me. Friendly Dylan, with his dimpled smile and easy way with a story, is another thing entirely.

He bounces to his feet and reaches down to help me up, looking nearly as giddy as I feel. “Let’s get the goods and get out, Haverford.”

“The sooner the better.” I take his hand, a zinging feeling skittering up my arm. “But I’m paying. My treat.”

“You’re not paying.” He snorts at the apparent ridiculousness of the suggestion. “I’m old-fashioned, Blondie. When we go out, I’m paying.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to stay in, because I believe in paying my share.”

Dylan flashes a heated look over his shoulder. “Staying in is fine, too, princess. More than fine.”

That look, the nickname, and all the sexy, sinful things they imply steal my words away, leaving my arms much too limp to wrestle him for the check. He pays, tucks the two pizzas and salad we ordered under one arm, and gathers me close with the other. As we circle around the restaurant to the parking lot, more than a few folks cast curious glances our way, making me wonder if meeting in a public place was a good idea, after all.

I’m not usually shy about people knowing who I’m dating, but this isn’t a date, and Dylan and I are going to expire in no more than three months. Maybe sooner.

And then I’ll be the city slicker who got dumped by Mercyville’s golden boy, because no one will ever believe that I dumped him. I’ll be an object of pity all over again, just like in my old life, when mutual friends called to commiserate before attending a dinner party hosted by Jeremy and his new girlfriend.

“I encourage you to eat in my truck.” Dylan hands me the pizzas then lifts my bike as if it weighs nothing at all and loads it into the back of his truck. “Less time we’ll have to spend eating when we get to your place.”

“What about you?” I push away my melancholy thoughts. I refuse to sully the beginning of this with thoughts of the end. “Would you like me to shove pizza in your mouth as you drive? I’m ambidextrous, so I can do that.”

He laughs. “Thanks, but like I said, I grew up in a house with brothers. I can take down half a pizza on the walk from the truck to your front door.”

And amazingly, he does.

And before I know it, we’re closing my front door, setting what’s left of our dinner on the entry table, and coming together in the dark.