The truth is I wanted to kiss her. I’d woken up wanting even more than that.

It’s not unusual for me to wake up hard in the morning, so that alone didn’t really surprise me. But waking up both aroused and wrapped around Annabelle totally threw me for a loop.

So much for the chastity pillow.

The flowery scent of her hair, her soft breast just barely within reach, her bottom pressed against me … It was like waking up into a dream.

I tell myself that that’s the reason I’m feeling attracted to her now. She’s a nice, cute girl; I’m a healthy guy. Waking up next to her in bed first thing in the morning, of course I’m going to have the urge to do more.

Not that it would be a good idea. Because I may be a cynical asshole, even a man whore, like Alex says, but Annabelle is a sweet kid, and for all intents and purposes, a client. While my body would be quite happy to work out its frustrations with her for a couple of sweaty, athletic hours, my mind and my morals—what’s left of them—tell me that it wouldn’t be fair to her. She’s obviously not a one-night-stand kind of girl, and I’m not the type to stick around for breakfast, much less anything long term.

But part of me wonders if she really would mind all that much. She’s been kind of flirty all morning, and for a moment up in her bedroom, just as she was waking up, one shoulder bare, her skin flushed and glowing, her eyes bright, and that fabulous mouth curving into just the hint of a smile, I thought that maybe she’d be up for something more than that. I ignored it and got away as quickly as I politely could, but something about the situation shook me.

I don’t want to lead her on and risk hurting her.

On the other hand, it’s possible that some steamy sex would be a welcome part of her fantasy, one I’d be only too happy to fulfill.

But even if I’m willing, that puts me back in man-whore territory, bringing what I’m starting to feel is a friendship with Annabelle into the realm of transaction.

And Annabelle deserves more than that.

I’d gone for a hard run, trying to work off the frustration, and I’d followed up with an icy cold shower when I got back, but even now, out in the bright sunshine, both of us dressed—Annabelle in a retro one-piece swimsuit and not-very short shorts—listening to her talk about currents and wind direction, I’m still finding myself attracted to her, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because I was forced to spend the whole night in bed with her, or maybe it’s some combination of the fresh air and the different scenery. I put it down to the novelty of the situation and try to leave it at that.

But when Annabelle just happens to brush past me just as her sisters are walking down the dock toward us, it seems like too good an opportunity to waste.

So I kiss her.

I have to admit that the first time I kissed her, back in LA, didn’t make much of an impression on me. She was too surprised to react much, and I was more concerned that it not look like we’d been fighting to make it a truly memorable kiss.

But this time is different. This time I’m thinking about the velvety pout of her lips and focusing on how they feel against mine. I’m paying attention to the way I slip my tongue across the opening of her mouth and probe its entrance. I’m intrigued by the way she parts her lips just a little, slowly, teasingly admitting me entrance. From her lack of reaction last time, I sort of assumed she just wasn’t very experienced, but now I think maybe that was due simply to surprise, because the girl who is kissing me now really seems to know what she’s doing …

Even though I’m expecting it, I’m annoyed when I hear a polite cough from the side of the dock.

The two of us pull apart, Annabelle seeming just as reluctant as me.

I realize I’ve let things go too far, enjoyed that too much. To cover myself, I give Annabelle a quick wink to convey that it wasn’t serious—that I was just keeping up appearances.

A shadow flickers over her expression, and I don’t have to be a genius to figure out that the kiss meant more to her than it should have. Mentally, I slap myself. I really have to watch myself around this girl. I’m already in her debt more than I’m comfortable with. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea about us, and I don’t want our fragile friendship to turn into something tawdry.

“Sorry to interrupt,” says Carina, though her eyes are dancing in mischievous amusement and she doesn’t look sorry at all. “I hear we’re going to Smithy’s after lunch?”

Annabelle recovers herself. “Yes. Right.”

“What’s Smithy’s?” I ask.

“It’s an ice cream place in town,” Annabelle says. “But this afternoon, it’s just me and my sisters.” She sounds resigned.

“Kind of a Winter sisters tradition,” Brianna explains.

“Aw, man,” I say in mock disappointment. “I love ice cream.”

“I’ll take you there tomorrow,” Annabelle promises. “In fact, if you’re good, maybe I’ll take you there after dinner.”

I give her a lazy, sexy smile that’s intended for the benefit of her sisters. “I guess I’d better be good, then.”

“Oh-kay,” Brianna says, “I guess we’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. Mom says you’re on lunch duty, by the way, Belle.”

Annabelle rolls her eyes and groans.

“We’ve got dinners, though,” Carina adds, letting Annabelle know she’s not being picked on. “Brianna’s cooking tomorrow, and I’ve got tonight.” She turns to me. “Archer, are you a good cook?”

I shrug. “Haven’t set the kitchen on fire yet,” I assure her truthfully.

She laughs. “Good enough! Can’t wait to see what you two come up with.”

The two of them stroll away, their footsteps echoing on the wooden dock.

For a moment, there’s an awkward silence between us, which I break by saying, “So what about this sailboat race you promised me?”

She blinks as if coming out of a trance. “Oh, right. We can do that after we get back from Smithy’s. Or tomorrow. Whatever.”

She looks out of sorts, and I worry that it was the kiss that did it. Or maybe the wink. But I don’t let myself dwell on it. We’re not a couple, and not likely to be, and leading her on would only be mean. So I change the subject.

“What should we do for lunch?”

She frowns and sighs. “Crap, I don’t know. I hate cooking. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, maybe.”

Seriously, what is it about the women in my life who can’t cook? That thought reminds me of Alex, and I wonder how she’s doing with Trevor, the probably-married asshole. I’m already a little touchy about Annabelle, feeling a blend of guilt, annoyance, and lust; dwelling on the Alex situation won’t improve my mood, so I put her out of my mind.

I snort. “Not on my watch, sunshine. We’ll come up with something better than that. Now, how about you take me for a spin in this thing?”

We spend the next hour out on the lake, Annabelle showing me how to sail. It’s slow going at first, as there’s very little wind, but once it picks up, I love it—the sunshine, the fresh breeze in my face, the quick thinking needed to turn the boat in the right direction, the surprising speed we can achieve once we reach the center of the lake where the wind, unbroken by the trees on the shore, can pick up and push us along.

Finally, Annabelle looks at her watch and steers us, a little reluctantly, back to the dock. Lunchtime. We tie up the boat, lower the sails, and walk back to the house, me remembering to put my arm around Annabelle just as we round the corner to the house to find her parents sitting on the porch swing by the door.

They wave to us, and we make polite conversation for a few minutes then head into the kitchen, where I quickly survey the contents of the refrigerator.

“Okay, we could do cold chicken left over from last night, and there’s lettuce for a salad. Didn’t we put leftover rice in the fridge last night?” I find it behind a gallon of milk and pull it out. “And—yes! Yogurt. Got any curry powder?”

Looking a little skeptical, Annabelle helps me find what I need to make a creamy curried rice salad. I set her to work defrosting some frozen peas while I whisk up the dressing. I then slice up the remaining chicken, which Annabelle arranges neatly on a platter. We do a green salad with croutons and slices of hardboiled egg, dressing on the side, and I warm up some rolls. I find a can of frozen lemonade in the freezer, Annabelle remembers some lavender that grows in the back garden and finds a brightly striped pitcher, and voila: lavender lemonade.

Half an hour later, Annabelle and I stand in the dining room, admiring our handiwork.

“You’ve made this look beautiful,” I tell her. And she has. Somehow she’s arranged the food and laid out the mismatched platters and bowls that the lake house kitchen is furnished with so that the table looks like it’s ready for a photo shoot for some high-end shelter magazine.

She shakes her head. “It’s thanks to you that it’s not peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.” She gives me a sly sidelong glance. “But I would have made them look good.”

“We make a good team,” I say, and hold my hand out for a high-five.

She gently slaps my palm, a warm smile on her face and a brightness in her eyes. I regret my choice of words.

We’re not a team, and I don’t want her to think that we are.

“Why don’t you call your family in?” I suggest.

I take more pride than I probably should in the enthusiastic reception that our lunch gets. They’re probably just happy that it's not peanut butter and jelly. Annabelle graciously gives me all the credit, but I can tell she’s enjoying the praise as much as I am. We catch each other eyes several times over lunch, and each time, she gives me a sweet little smile.

I’m fulfilling my end of the bargain, I tell myself: I’ve got a roof over my head for the weekend and I’m making Annabelle look good to her family.

But that smile of hers worries me.

“I hear my daughters are planning to go into town later,” Mrs. Winter says to me. “I hope you don’t mind being left with us for an hour or two.”

“Not at all,” I assure her. “If you need help with anything around the house, feel free to put me to work.”

Mrs. Winter starts to shake her head but Mr. Winter cuts in. “Actually, we could use some help putting the spare room back together again,” he says. “The repair crew is almost finished replacing the floorboards, but Moira and I pulled half the room into the hallway yesterday when we realized what happened and we could use some help getting it back.”

Annabelle starts to protest, but I cut her off. I’ve got a strong back, and a little heavy lifting is a small price to pay.

“No problem, Mr. Winter. I’d be happy to help.”

“’Preciate it,” he says. “I’ll catch you after lunch.”