After I got back from painting Milton’s, Grace wasn’t around to give me another ration of shit for last night or for the fact that I agreed to take off with Quinn again. That means I was left to my own happy devices while I picked out what to wear for what truly can be defined as a “real date” this time.

So I raided my sister’s closet — she has a lot of pretty things — and I chose a white dress with tiny blue flowers. It’s casual and goes well with my fancy blue boots and isn’t too nice but just nice enough, you know? When my mom saw me waiting outside for Quinn to pick me up, she was shocked that I was wearing an actual dress. I think she’s still a little bit cautious about him and his tats, but she also seemed glad that I was going out.

But, shit, maybe this was the wrong thing to wear, because now, as I sit across from Quinn in a dimly lit steakhouse in Marloe, he’s watching me intensely. I bite my lip and look at my plate. I think I either chose really, really well or very badly. It depends on what I’m going for at the end of the night.

I’m so anxious that I can barely eat my steak, let alone the baked potato and creamed spinach, but it’s not just the usual discomfort scuttling along my nerve endings. Something changed back in the diner today when Quinn touched me, and raging anticipation has taken me over. Ever since he picked me up for this date, I’ve felt shivers digging down deep, running along the lining of my belly until I have to press my thighs together under the table to keep my entire body from trembling under his gaze.

Watch out for that ladies’ man, Grace kidded me this morning as she drove me home, and I ignored her. Now I’m hoping that Quinn doesn’t look this way at every woman who catches his fancy, or that he doesn’t touch them all until their limbs turn to sugar water.

When I look back up at him, he’s nudging his empty plate away and leaning back in his chair. This steakhouse isn’t ultra-fancy, but it’s high quality just the same, and the ambient lighting only makes his eyes look darker, feverish. He’s got some stubble on his face to roughen up every naughty thought that flashes through my brain whenever I think of touching his thick, dark hair or running my fingertips over his button down’s sleeve to feel the hard muscles beneath.

“You’re slowing down,” he says, gesturing toward my plate.

My gaze lingers on his big hand. Oh, that hand and what it could do to me. I’ve been fantasizing about those hands all over me throughout the day: on the drive to Marloe, at that bookstore, now at dinner. I’ve been dreaming of the hand during every moment we’ve chatted about date-y stuff like the customers and clients we both deal with on a daily basis: books, movies, and other things that aren’t too deep. But I have the feeling everything is about to take a turn now that the meal is about to come to an end.

“My eyes were bigger than my stomach,” I say. “This place serves a huge plate.”

“Just like Milton’s.” He looks thoughtful. “Have you ever thought of updating the menu along with the décor?”

Smiling, I pick up my glass of water. No wine for me tonight. “I was wondering when you’d get to your next round of suggestions. You seem to have an unlimited supply.” I shrug lightly. “Luckily, I’m getting used to them.”

I drink my water and put the glass down. When he smiles back at me, I know I haven’t insulted him.

He leans forward, resting his thick forearms on the table and looking at me just as intensely as before. My blood whirs, tickling me through and through. Dammit, I want to kiss him again, and I’m not even as drunk as a skunk. It’s the culmination of how he tasted when I gave him that little kiss last night and how he slid his hand over my arm at the diner …

He lowers his voice. “Is it so bad that I like taking care of you, Gwen?”

I shouldn’t be turned on. Jeez, I can take care of myself, thank you. But, holy shit, I am. There’s a buzz between my legs, a warmth as thick as honey. I’m feeling the same way in my chest, right around my heart.

He goes on. “You’re a strong woman, but even the strongest need to know that someone’s looking out for them.”

“Is that what you want to do? Look out for me?” Because I get the feeling he’s looking into me, and he sees far more than I’ve ever let anyone see.

That’s such a turn-on, too.

He pauses as if he’s going to keep his full intentions quiet for now, then grins and backtracks. “What was I saying about the menu?”

“Facelift time.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Listen, I know Milton’s is notorious for its deep-fried Sick Balls Mile, but some healthy options might draw in more of the newbie crowd that’s moving into Cherry Valley. So would some high-dollar items for the tourists, like fresh game from the ranches. Out of towners would pay much more for stuff like that, and it would only help out the diner.”

I think he’s ready for me to veto all of this, but I’m warming to his ideas, just as surely as I’m sitting here starting to flush for him. I tuck back a hank of hair behind my ear.

“I’ll consider all of that,” I say, tilting my head.

Something flickers in his gaze, as if he’s surprised and pleased that I’m not slamming him. I might even be flirting.

As the waiter stops by to offer dessert, I pull my gaze away from Quinn’s. I feel hazy and kind of drunk, as if I’ve had just the right amount of wine. I still feel horny as all get out, too.

I refuse dessert, and Quinn asks for the check. That’s when I start to get nervous again, because what comes next? Oh, boy, I know what I want next, and I’m just now realizing that I’ve wanted this since the moment I set eyes on those muscles and tats and dark hair and him. It’s only that I’ve been too ornery and stubborn to go and get it.

When we leave the steakhouse and begin our walk down the busy Marloe streets to the nearby parking structure, there’s a space between Quinn and me that seems to vibrate with everything that I’m not saying to him. What would happen if I brushed against him like … this?

As my arm whisks against his, a million sparks flit through me, and I hold my breath. A moment passes, and he rests his hand on my back. If I was breathless before, that’s nothing now. My lungs are tight, and I’m afraid that the next breath I take will be the one that makes me tell him that I don’t want the night to end just yet.

We arrive at his big red truck, and he opens the door for me. I swing myself into the seat, and as he shuts the door and goes around to his side, I rest my hand on the leather-bound books I’ve been keeping between us on the seat. He bought these for me at the secondhand bookstore today; he was patient about letting me scamper around the stacks, finding copies of classics I’ve always wanted to read, like Vanity Fair and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I even made some recommendations to him, and he ended up buying a copy of On the Road.

I pick up all those books — the miniature wall I’ve been keeping between us — then put them on the floorboards.

Quinn climbs in, and after we buckle up, he glances down at the relocated books. The space I’ve cleared must be an obvious sign to him that I’m more open to … what? Another sexless night with me under the covers and him over them?

He starts the engine, then we roll out. “When I get around to reading that book I bought, maybe we can talk about it over another dinner.”

“First you need to show me that you can say the author’s name.”

“Kerouac.” He laughs. “Impressed yet?”

Flirt, Gwen. You can do this without the wine. “Is that what you were doing? Impressing me?”

He sends me one of those devastating smiles. “That’s all I ever try to do with you.”

My honeypot is back to bubbling for him. I shift in my seat and wonder how to tell him that I don’t want to go back to Cherry Valley yet. If he wants to take care of me, I think I could learn real fast to like being taken care of. I’ve sure been enjoying it today.

Or is that pathetic?

Right now, I couldn’t care less what it is, because I want Fun Gwen to rule me again … and she wants him. Every time I breathe, I catch the scent of his skin, shower-fresh and woodsy, and I get a little bolder and dizzier.

“So,” he says, as we come to a light on the traffic-choked street, “the night’s still young, but if you’re tired, we can head back to Cherry Valley.”

Do this!

“I’m not tired,” I say. “Do you live close by?”

The air goes from warm to blazing in that fraction of a second. He doesn’t say anything, and I want to slap myself upside the head. Did I make a bad move? Is he one of those guys who needs to do the chasing to get his motor running and I just threw water all over his engine?

He finally speaks, his tone gritty. “I live about five minutes away.”

Close the deal, Fun Gwen! “Because I’ve been curious about how your place looks. You know, because you’re a contractor?”

Oh, lame. I don’t sound like I want some action at all.

When the light turns green, he guns through the intersection, then changes lanes. He’s driving fast, almost as if he thinks I’m going to change my mind, and all I can do is hold on and try not to start laughing like a giddy fool. I lied so hard to him — I don’t just want to see the décor in his family room or kitchen. I want to check out his bedroom. I want to take a tour of his hard body after his clothes are off. Now that I tasted fun, I want more, and it’s not like I’m some virgin anyway. I’m just … picky.

And I’ve picked Quinn.

The more I think about getting the hell to his house, the more my heart beats and the more primed I get, and by the time he pulls into the driveway of a craftsman with a low roof and wide eaves that sits on a hill overlooking the city lights, I’m one big throbbing pulse. He cuts the engine, and I unbuckle myself and open the door. As soon as I land on the ground, I walk straight to his porch, my boot steps hammering like the bang-bang-bang! I’m just about to get from him.

Yes, sex is about to happen.

We’re silent as he lets me in, and once I step onto his hardwood floor, I barely have time to see his wrought-iron light fixtures and simple, clean furniture before I feel his fingers brush aside the hair from my neck. I slowly look up at him towering over me in the moonlight.

“Show me your bedroom first,” Fun Gwen whispers.