“Shh! Quiet. You want someone to hear us?” Amber giggles, letting me know she’s not that serious about the need for silence.

Since I’m hoping to make her scream before the night is through, I’m not, either.

“Relax,” I tell her, pulling her down beside me on the thick wool blanket I’ve laid at the edge of the pond. “Bree is in Portland at some marketing convention, Brandon’s staying at your place with Jade, and my brothers know better than to snoop when I’m on a date.”

“A date, huh.” Amber smiles up at me, her face glowing in the moonlight as she reaches across me to grab the picnic basket. “I hope you know I expect you to feed me before I’ll put out.”

“I’ll feed you as often as you like,” I promise.

Forever and ever and ever, my subconscious adds.

My subconscious is probably jumping the gun a little, but it’s true. I definitely see myself with Amber until we’re old and gray. It’s too soon to be talking like that, but I get the sense we’re on the same page.

Amber pulls a bottle of Veuve Cliquot out of the basket and gives a hum of pleasure. “Oooh, fancy. What’s the occasion?”

“The occasion is the fulfillment of my favorite youthful fantasy.”

She gives me a coy look and pops the top off the bottle. “You’ll have to be more specific,” she says. “We’ve fulfilled a lot of fantasies lately.”

I laugh and pull two champagne glasses out of the basket. She fills the glasses three-quarters full, and I hand one to her as soon as she’s stashed the bottle back in the ice bucket.

Yes, I’m the dork who brings an antique marble chill bucket on a date that takes place on the bank of an irrigation pond.

“So which fantasy are we toasting?” she asks, even though I’m pretty sure she knows. The fact that we’re both sitting here dripping wet and wrapped in terrycloth robes would have clued her in.

“To skinny dipping,” I tell her, clinking my glass against hers. “Which was every bit as amazing as I always knew it would be, so thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She smiles and takes a sip of champagne. “I always feel a little guilty about drinking this.”

“Because of my mom?”

She shrugs and swirls the bubbly liquid in the glass. “I know it was her favorite.”

“It used to be,” I admit. “But she’s found lots of other favorites now.”

Before my mother had even finished her thirty-day stint in rehab, she’d lined up a book deal for a guide to sexy mocktails and booze-free beverages. It’s scheduled to release the same week her new show debuts on the Food Network, spotlighting family recipes paired with specialty virgin beverages.

“The Virgin Chef,” Amber says, reading my mind. She gives a little grimace, then takes a sip of champagne to wash it down. “I guess the shock value sells.”

“That it does.”

“I’m just glad you got everything straightened out with the property ownership,” she says. “That the land is yours free and clear.”

“It’s a relief,” I agree. “And it’ll be nice having Chef Melody do guest chef appearances in the restaurant a few times a year.”

We sit in silence a moment, surrounded by the symphony of crickets and croaking frogs who may or may not have been checking out our junk in the pond ten minutes ago.

When Amber speaks, her voice is softer. “Thank you for showing me the cave,” she murmurs. “I can see why it meant so much to you.”

“A little like your family’s chapel.”

She smiles. “Exactly.”

Her fingers find mine on the blanket, and I sit there stroking her knuckles for a few seconds. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

“Pretty sure I’ve seen it all.” She sips her champagne and smirks. “I’ve been impressed so far.”

“Funny, but no.” I lift the champagne flute from her fingers and set it aside with mine. Then I get to my feet and lift her up with me. “Come on. It’s just over here.”

I lead her along the marshy bank of the pond, stepping around a puddle that threatens to suck the flip-flops off our feet. “Where are we going?” Amber asks.

Fingering the flashlight in my robe pocket, I smile to myself. “You’ll see.”

I can see the tree up ahead, its leaves flickering in starlit breeze. As we draw closer, Amber makes a soft, “oh” sound.

“You found the tree,” she says, running her fingers over the faint initials carved in the bark. She turns with an expression halfway between quizzical and self-conscious. “You wanted me to see my name carved next to some old boyfriend?”

“Nope.” I train the beam of my flashlight on the tree next to it. It’s a quaking aspen, sturdy and gnarled with paper-white bark and delicate leaves fluttering above us. When the letters catch her eye, Amber gasps again. She lifts her hand, tracing her fingers over the letters. “‘AK + SB = 4ever.’” She turns and grins. “I love it.”

“I had a professional arborist do it so there’s no damage to the tree,” I say. “I know that’s not as romantic as me doing it myself with a pocketknife, but I wanted it done right.”

“That’s way more romantic,” she says, dropping her hand from the tree trunk and lacing her fingers through mine. “I love that you’re the most thoughtful guy on the planet.”

“I wanted it to last forever.”

She smiles, and I know she realizes I’m not just talking about the tree. “So do I.”

Yeah, I know it’s soon. But sometimes, you just know.

As I plant a kiss along her hairline, I see her glance at the other tree. The one with her youthful carvings. A flicker of embarrassment passes over her face, but I squeeze her hand to draw her attention back to me. “It’s part of your story,” I tell her. “Part of how you got to me. I’d never want to erase that.”

She gives me a small smile. “Like your tattoo?”

“Exactly.” I squeeze her hand. “Like keeping your flames going after the unity candle is lit.”

“I love that.” Amber smiles. “And I love you. So much.”

I pull her into my arms, thrilled by the feel of her warm, naked body under that robe. “I love you, too.”

My dream girl.

I think the words, but don’t say them aloud. It’s true I got the girl of my fantasies, but also true she’s so much more than that. The flesh and blood version of Amber is so much better than the one I imagined.

“So,” she murmurs against the side of my neck. “Tell me how it went in your fantasies.”

“What do you mean?”

She draws back from our embrace, and the smile she gives me sends a jolt of lust through me. “Well, I step out of the pond without a stich of clothing on,” she says. “And you’re up there on the balcony…”

“Ignoring the fact that my father is down here yelling at you for trespassing?”

“Ignoring that,” she says. “We’re rewriting our own version of the story here.”

And I’m so damn grateful for that I could burst. Amber smiles and stretches up to kiss the edge of my jaw. It’s a soft kiss and so light it’s almost chaste, but there’s nothing chaste about the surge that bolts through me. “So,” she whispers. “Tell me how it goes from there.”

I smile and draw her to me, leaning down to claim her mouth. I kiss her hard and deep and so passionately we have to lean back against the tree to keep from toppling.

When I draw back, we’re both breathless. I reach up and brush a damp tendril of hair off her face. “How about I show you instead?”

Amber grins and presses her body against mine, the front of her robe parting just enough to leave my mouth watering.

“Perfect,” she whispers. “That’s the best kind of story.”