I whirl at the sound of my name, pulling in a startled breath when I see Sean standing in the moonlight.

I blurt the first words that spring to mind for anyone caught doing something they shouldn’t be. “I can explain.”

He stares at me a moment, then shakes his head in disbelief. He ambles toward me, slow and deliberate, like he’s moving though quicksand in a gorilla suit. His expression is somewhere between bemusement and disbelief, and he’s mumbling something that sounds like, “…get my eyes checked.”

“What?”

He lifts a hand, and for a second I think he’s reaching for me. But no, he’s only grazing the sleeve of my pale pink fleece. “This,” he says, rubbing the form-fitting fabric between his fingertips. “Flesh-colored. I thought you were—uh—” He clears this throat. “Never mind.”

I look down at my jacket, not sure why we’re discussing my fashion choices when I’ve been caught red-handed trespassing on his property. “It’s from Patagonia’s new spring line,” I supply. “The color’s called ‘Au Naturel.’”

“You don’t say.”

I lick my lips, hyper-aware that the last time I saw him, I was pressed braless against his chest with his mouth on mine. “Um, look—I know I’m not supposed to be here, and I should have asked, but I didn’t want to bother anyone and—what are you doing?”

“Sitting down.” He peels off his jacket and spreads it on the grass like a blanket, then eases himself to the ground. With his back to a willow, he stretches his long legs out in front of him and tilts his face to the sky. “Join me?”

I hesitate, not sure what’s happening here. Am I supposed to stay or go?

“Stay,” he says without looking at me, making me wonder if I asked my question aloud. I didn’t, but I sit down anyway and stretch my legs out next to his. Mine are much shorter, but our knees bump together in the middle, and his body heat warms me through my jeans.

“So what brings you out here?” he asks.

I let a breath out slowly, trying to think of how to explain. “It’s stupid.”

That gets a small smile from him, though he still doesn’t look at me. He seems transfixed by the stars. “I haven’t met my quota of stupid yet today, so lay it on me.”

I tip my head back to survey the sky overhead. A zillion stars are smeared out across the inky surface like speckles of glitter on black felt. I spend a few seconds locating the big dipper before I reply.

“There’s a tree on the other side of the pond,” I say. “I don’t remember which one, but I wanted to see if my initials are still there.”

“Initials?”

A tickle of shame bubbles in my chest. “I carved them. That night I was skin—uh, swimming?”

The corners of Sean’s mouth tilt up a little more. “Yeah?”

My cheeks are hot, and I’m hopeful he can’t see them in the semi-darkness. “Right. My initials and some guy I was dating back then. I’m not even positive I remember his last name. Jensen or Johnson or something.”

He lifts one eyebrow, still not looking at me. “But you were serious enough to deface a tree for him?”

“I was eighteen.”

He nods like that’s an answer, but I know it’s not. “What made you come looking for it tonight?”

I shrug and fiddle with a frayed patch on the knee of my jeans. “Being in the chapel the other day—seeing my grandparents’ initials—I guess I started wondering about mine.”

“I see.”

I wonder if he does. There’s a sour bubble of shame in my throat, and I swallow hard to force it back. “I told you it was stupid.”

“Not stupid,” he says slowly, turning to look at me finally. “We all have relationships that don’t work out. It’s normal to circle back to the wreckage every now and then to figure out what the hell went wrong.”

I nod, impressed by both his turn of phrase and the fact that he seems to get it. I bite my lip, hesitating. “You said you were engaged once?”

“Yep.”

“But not married?”

“Nope.”

From his one-word answers—and the fact that he’s gone back to looking at the sky—I’m guessing he doesn’t want to talk about it. I let the subject drop, figuring it’s just as well, since I’m bristling with a jealousy I have no right to feel. Still, I’m curious. What sort of woman would Sean Bracelyn pledge to marry? I can’t picture him with a waifish model, being a chef and all, though I’m sure women like that throw their twiggy bodies at him all the time. Maybe the daughter of some East Coast millionaires from old money? And what happened, anyway? Did she leave him for a tattooed bad boy or was it a mutual falling out or—

“She died.” Sean’s words shatter my thoughts so hard I feel glass shards in my throat. “Sarah—that was my fiancée—she passed away.”

“Oh, God.” I bring my hands to my mouth, kicking myself for bringing this up at all. Idiot. I hesitate, then slowly lower one hand and rest it on his knee. “Sean, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

“It’s okay.” He takes a deep breath, and I catch myself matching it. We sit there like that for a few beats, breathing in and out together while I wait to see if there’s more he wants to share. Should I try to change the subject or wait to see if he does?

When Sean speaks again, his voice is softer. “She was killed in a plane crash,” he says. “On her way to visit me in Paris where I was teaching a workshop at Le Cordon Bleu.”

“How awful.” I press my lips together and shake my head, trying to come up with something to say that doesn’t sound trite and hollow. “I can’t imagine.”

“It’s been four years, so I guess I’ve had time to process it. Want to know the worst part?”

I shake my head, not sure I do. How much worse could it be? A dead fiancée whose only reason for being on the crashed plane was a journey to see the love of her life.

Sean’s still looking at me, so I force a response from my achy throat. “Only if you want to share.”

“She’d just broken up with me,” he says slowly. “Called off the engagement and the wedding and everything. Said I was too closed off, and she couldn’t be with someone who didn’t know how to open up emotionally.”

I study the side of his face, noticing the way the moonlight glints off the cinnamon stubble lining his jaw. I’m not sure I’m following the story. “But she was flying to see you?”

He nods. “Because I asked her to,” he says. “I begged her to give us another shot. Sent her a first-class plane ticket and everything. I promised her this big, romantic weekend in Paris with dinner at all the best restaurants and shopping along Avenue Montaigne and Flawless Honoré.”

Tears prick the back of my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. That’s the last thing he needs. “I can’t even begin to guess what it would feel like to live through that,” I say slowly. “But I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

He nods and drops a hand to his thigh, and that’s when I realize my hand is still on his leg. I start to draw back, feeling foolish, but Sean folds his hand around mine and laces our fingers together.

He turns to face me, and there’s an intensity in those green eyes that steals my breath. “It wouldn’t have worked out,” he says softly. “With Sarah, I mean. I regret that I didn’t let go sooner.”

His words make me pause. He regrets not ending things, rather than not opening up the way she wanted him to? I know he said tough conversations aren’t his thing, but that seems major.

“Anyway, it’s done,” he says softly.

So is this conversation, his words seem to signal. But he doesn’t look away.

And something in me isn’t quite ready to drop it, either.

“You can’t blame yourself,” I say. “It’s easy to have twenty-twenty hindsight after you know how it all shakes out.”

“True enough.” Sean nods but doesn’t take his eyes from mine. Not yet anyway. He’s still holding my hand, and he gives it a soft squeeze before turning to look at the sky again. “We had matching tattoos.”

“You and Sarah?” There’s that spear of jealousy again. I swallow it back and turn my gaze back to the stars.

“Yeah. Not matching, I guess. Complementary. Peanut butter toast for me, jelly for her.”

“Seriously?” I catch myself starting to smile, and Sean glances at me with a wry look of his own.

“Yep. It was supposed to be this symbolic tribute to our opposite natures and foodie culture and—hell, I don’t know what we were thinking, actually.” He shrugs. “Anyway, far be it from me to judge you for carving up a tree.”

“There’s some perspective.” I lift my free hand from the ground beside me and trace a fingertip over the back of Sean’s knuckles. He’s still holding my other hand, and his fingers tighten around mine. “Where’s your tattoo?” I ask.

“Left shoulder. It’s small. I’ll show it to you sometime if you want.”

“I’d like that.” I’d love it, actually. The thought of Sean without a shirt sends sizzling little zaps of pleasure from my belly to my fingertips, and I wonder if he feels it in my hands.

We fall silent, both of us tuned to the far-off yip of coyotes and the unseasonably warm breeze caressing our skin.

“This is nice,” he says. “I can’t believe how warm it is for this time of year.”

“It’s like this a lot in the high desert. We can have two feet of snow one week and crocuses coming up the next.”

He turns to look at me again, and I wonder if I could ever get tired of losing myself in those deep green eyes. “Did you find the tree?”

I’d almost forgotten why I came here tonight. “The one I carved my initials in?” I shake my head. “Nope.”

“And the guy?”

“Not really interested in finding him. I haven’t seen him for years.”

I hesitate, not sure how much more to tell him. But he did just open up with his story, so I find myself spilling my own. “I guess all this wedding planning has me thinking about relationships. About my parents and grandparents and why some people live happily ever after and others just fizzle out. Like, what makes the difference?”

He looks at me oddly for a second. “Work.”

There’s such certainty in his voice that it takes me by surprise. “Not fate or true love or serendipity or whatever?”

He shakes his head, looking down at our intertwined fingers on his lap. He lifts his free hand and skims a fingertip over my knuckles. It’s the gentlest touch, but something about it sends pulses of fire up my arm.

“I don’t think so,” he says slowly. “The only difference between couples who make it and the ones who don’t is a decision to dig in your heels and fight for it.”

“Huh.” It’s an interesting theory. Is that how it was for my grandparents? Or my parents, for that matter.

“But what the hell do I know?” He laughs, but it’s a stiff sort of laughter that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m the unmarried offspring of a guy who should have bought a discount punch-card for divorces. I’ve never even kept a plant alive, let alone a marriage.” He gives me a sweetly self-conscious smile. “I have been thinking about a cat, though.”

“A cat?” I blink at him. “Really?”

“Why is that hard to believe?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that we’re neutering a whole a bunch of feral cats tomorrow.”

Sean frowns. “Please tell me this isn’t part of the Testicle Festival.”

I laugh, conscious of how often our conversations seem to turn to testicles. Is that my doing?

“It’s a clinic we do twice a year at the ranch,” I explain. “Jade spays and neuters barn cats and strays and stuff.”

“What, with farm tools or something?”

That makes me snort. “Jade’s a licensed vet. She mostly just treats our animals, but she does these clinics a few times a year to help keep stray cat colonies down.”

“Are any of them up for adoption?”

There’s something adorably childlike in his expression, and I focus on that so I’m not overwhelmed by the parts of him that are most definitely not childlike. Broad shoulders, scruffy jawline, a big hand still wrapped around mine.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I mean, some of the feral ones are pretty wild, but we also get a lot of housecats that someone turned loose in the country.”

Sean’s brow furrows. “Who’d do something like that?”

“Assholes,” I mutter. “Or people who fool themselves into thinking their fluffy little pet who’s been totally dependent on them for food and shelter can magically fend for himself in the wilderness.”

“God, I hate that.” Sean shakes his head. “Do you need volunteers or anything? For the clinic?”

“We can always use an extra set of hands.” I do my best not to stare at Sean’s hands. “And that will give you first dibs on adoptable cats.”

“Deal.” Sean grins. “What time should I be there?”

“The clinic opens at eight, but we start getting cats as early as six.”

“Six,” he repeats, and I’m reminded that Sean’s still pretty new to ranch life. That he didn’t grow up milking cows at the butt-crack of dawn. I’m not sure he realizes he’s volunteering for a day of scrot-snipping just for a free cat, but I decide not to point that out.

“You don’t have to come that early,” I assure him. “You can do a half-day or just—”

“No, I’ll be there,” he says. “I can bring breakfast for the volunteers.”

“That would be amazing.” I smile up at him, wondering if he knows how much I want him to kiss me again.

Either he knows or he’s a damn good guesser, because he lowers his mouth to mine and skims a light kiss over my lips. It’s soft like the last one, but different somehow. There’s an undefined tenderness that wasn’t there before. I lean back against the tree, the bark rough against my spine as my fingers take on a life of their own and reach up to graze the scruff on Sean’s cheek.

He deepens the kiss, threading his fingers through my hair. Our hands are still twined together, but he lifts his free one to my hip. Everything in my body begs him to move up, to slide just a few inches to skim the edge of my breast.

When he does, I gasp out loud. “God,” I groan, urging him on with a tilt of my hips.

He obliges, his large palm curving over my not-so-large breast, creating an enormously-large burst of pleasure in the center of my chest. I press into him, hungry for his touch. He tastes like red wine and truffle salt and desire, and I could seriously devour this man.

“God, Amber,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down the line of my throat. “What is it about you?”

It seems like a rhetorical question, but I wonder what the answer is. Does he feel the same connection I do?

His fingers catch the zipper on my fleece jacket, and never in my life have I been so grateful to be wearing a v-neck T-shirt. He tugs down the zipper as his kisses inch lower, his breath warm between my breasts.

He eases me back, and I pull him with me, letting my spine settle against the down-filled warmth of his jacket. His hand inches beneath my T-shirt, and even though I’m expecting it, I still moan when his fingers graze my breast.

“You’re missing something here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss between my breasts. “Again.”

“Right,” I murmur, gasping as his mouth claims more territory to the left. “All my bras are in the wash. I—uh—wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here.”

“Lucky me.”

Lucky me, I think as his thumb skims my bare nipple, and I arch up to meet the pleasure.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, lowering his head to draw the stiff peak into his mouth. I groan and clutch the back of his head, willing him to keep going. His tongue makes a slow circuit around my nipple, driving me mad. Every ion in my body shrieks “we want him!” and I bite my lip to keep from screaming it out loud.

This is crazy. How did I get from “let’s keep it professional” to clenching his hair in my fist as his mouth devours my bare breasts under the stars? I don’t know, but I do know I don’t want him to stop. I breathe in the scent of sage and pond water and something I think might be Sean’s aftershave, positive I’ve never wanted anything this badly in my life.

Sean draws back and plants a soft kiss at the top of my breast. It’s softer than the last, and there’s something in it that feels like the period at the end of a sentence. When his eyes meet mine, there’s something in them I can’t read.

“We should stop,” he whispers.

“We should?”

He nods, and I wonder what the hell I did to spin the car a hundred-and-eighty degrees. “I don’t want to,” he says. “But this isn’t the place for it.”

I swallow hard, wondering if he means geographic location or something else. His cabin can’t be more than half a mile from here, so I don’t think we’re talking logistics.

I feel him pulling away, even though he hasn’t moved a muscle. “We’re both in a weird place right now,” I agree, then want to kick myself for uttering such a stupidly benign phrase. I sound like a contestant on The Bachelor. Did I do something to scare him off?

When Sean smiles, there’s something a little sad in his expression. “I’ve wanted this forever,” he admits. “So I think we can wait until the right time and place and—”

“Right, yes, for sure.” I sit up and tug down the hem of my shirt, not sure how to read him right now. Is this really about time and place, or did he change his mind about me?

His gaze holds mine for a few heartbeats, and I have my answer. He wants me. He wants me as much as I want him. Longing, sharp and hot, floods my chest so I can hardly breathe. He closes the space between us and kisses me again. Slowly, softly, with aching tenderness.

Then he draws back and gets to his feet, pulling me with him. His hand is still wrapped around mine, and a quick glance at the front of his jeans confirms he’s as turned on as I am.

“Okay, I’m stopping for real.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Before I can’t.”

“Right.” I nod toward the bank of trees where I parked my truck. “I’m just over there, so I’ll be going now.”

“Let me walk you to it.”

I shake my head, knowing exactly how that would go. I’m no stranger to fumbling sex on the bench seat of my work truck with boys I have no business fooling around with.

But Sean’s no boy, and I think he might be right about something. This isn’t the time or place. My brain is still clouded with lust, but there’s one thing I’m sure of—I want things to be different with Sean.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “It’s fifty feet, and I have a gun in my pocket.”

“Jesus.” He shakes his head slowly, looking at me like he’s never seen me before. “Why is that sexy?”

I laugh and pull back, needing to put some distance between us before I climb him like a jungle gym. “Because you’re a city boy,” I tell him. “And anything different is exciting and exotic.”

And then the shine wears off. I’ve seen it before, which is why I take another step back. “Good night, Sean.”

“Good night, Amber.”

I turn and walk away, everything in my body screaming at me not to.

Everything except my heart, which tells me to get the hell in the truck and drive away.