No strings. No commitments. Nothing but easy, breezy fun.

And then it would be done, long before Ally ever had to confess her secret to Reggie or Clarissa.

Getting ready for Thursday’s date, she felt the tiniest pinpricks of guilt in her belly, but there was no point in telling them the truth about Roscoe. Ally wasn’t even sure what the truth was. That she liked him enough to temporarily swallow her dating fears and jump into this thing, knowing it would only go so far? That she’d run out on her lunch hour to buy a matching bra and panties made of something other than cotton? That she’d spent an extra half an hour in the shower, scrubbing and trimming and shaping like a professional landscaper for the proverbial “just in case” suddenly on the horizon?

I don’t plan on being very respectable at all…

Roscoe’s words echoed in her memory, sending a shiver down her spine as she checked out her reflection in the bedroom mirror. The new lingerie was gorgeous—pale pink satin with tiny black dots, trimmed in black lace, and it made her feel sexy as hell. Even if Roscoe never saw it, it didn’t matter. She’d know she was wearing it, and she’d feel like—in the words of Paulette—a million smackeroos.

She hoped he would see it, though. Ally was pretty sure that she’d gotten all the major jitters out of the way last weekend after her penis-induced freakout at Wellshire. After so many years without seeing one—let alone touching one—she’d forgotten how intimidating they could be. Kind of like the black bear she’d encountered one summer in the Rockies as a kid. Well, except that penises wouldn’t trample your campsite in the middle of the night searching for the granola bars you’d forgotten to pack away even after your mom reminded you no less than five times. And also, penises didn’t growl. As far as she knew. Perhaps she would test that theory later tonight…

Bottling up the remnants of her guilt, Ally put on her favorite coral-colored sundress and a pair of strappy turquoise sandals, grabbing a thin white shall in case it got chilly later. Other than advising her not to dress too fancy, her date had given no clues about what to expect tonight. Roscoe, she was quickly learning, thrived on surprises.

No one was more surprised than Ally. Not just at how easily she’d accepted his invitations, and not just at the rush of feelings he’d unleashed, the waves of giddiness, everything inside her buzzing and tingling whenever she thought of him.

No, those things didn’t surprise her. What was most shocking to Ally was the fact that—despite the penis incident, which she was pretty sure was a one-time, getting-back-on-the-horse kind of thing—she wasn’t afraid of being with him like this. Of having fun.

As long as she stuck to the plan.

In the days since she’d last seen Roscoe, once the delirious kiss-induced haze had cleared, Ally had figured it all out. She may not be the most experienced woman in the bedroom, but she did know this much: ongoing casual sex with a guy like Roscoe was not for her. They could spend time together, go on dates, make out, and fool around to their hearts’ content, but once things progressed to actual sex, attachments and emotions would soon follow—at least on Ally’s end. And her emotions were the very last thing that still belonged to her—the very last thing over which she had any control. She couldn’t relinquish them, not even for a man whose electric touch left her body on fire, desperate for more.

Especially not for a man like that.

The solution was simple: once they had sex—tonight? Next week? In a month?—they’d part ways. Leave off on a high note before things got too serious and all the old worries rushed in, turning her into a puddle of nerves and fear and sending Roscoe packing anyway.

But what if he likes you? Like, really likes you?

Ally let out a dreamy sigh. Yes, they’d shared a connection that went beyond the physical—that much was obvious. But even if he did like her, it would all fade soon enough. The NHL regular season started in the fall, and there would be lots of training and prepping and traveling, and he wouldn’t have time for Ally and all these cute little dates. Reggie would be back in school, and Ally would dive headlong into building her new career and their life here in Buffalo. No tears, no drama, no hard feelings.

No feelings at all, actually.

Savannah Hart might disagree on her approach, but for Ally, the plan was the only thing allowing her to move forward right now. Because no matter how badly she wanted to believe Savannah’s mantras—Being vulnerable is your biggest strength! Pursue your heart’s desires with unapologetic ferocity!—personal experience had taught her a hard lesson.

It was a whole lot easier to be brave and bold in the face of adversity when you knew the adversity had a built-in expiration date.

* * *

“You brought lasagna? On a picnic?” Ally tucked her legs up underneath her dress and repositioned herself on their blanket, holding out her hands for the plate Roscoe had just served her. It was still hot, thanks to the insulated bag he’d packed it in, and weighed about twelve pounds.

Ally tried the first bite, moaning unapologetically. She felt like she’d died and gone to cheesy, meaty, saucy heaven.

That wasn’t even counting the rest of the food he’d brought—bruschetta, olives, caprese salad with smoked mozzarella, wine so smooth and rich it felt like liquid silk on her tongue. He’d prepared a gourmet feast for her, and by the time she’d arrived and followed his directions to this secluded little grove in the middle of Chestnut Ridge park, he’d had it all laid out on a blanket, wine already opened, a bouquet of flowers in a vase in the grass, his broad smile making her heart stutter.

“Correction,” he said now. “I made lasagna. And it’s not just any picnic. It’s a special occasion.”

“Our second official date?”

“Well, that and the meteor shower.” He nodded up toward the sky, and Ally stretched out her legs and tilted her head back. The sun still floated well above the horizon, the sky a peaceful shade of blue streaked with wispy clouds.

“It’s not dark enough,” she said.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.” He nudged her bare foot with his. “Nature works in mysterious ways, Ally Heinz, and rarely for our entertainment.”

Ally laughed. “You are the eternal optimist.”

“You’re right.” He tugged on a lock of her hair, tucking it behind her ear with a soft touch that left her aching for more. “There’s only one thing that could kill the mood—you not liking my cooking. Total deal-breaker for me.”

“No chance,” Ally said, trying not to think too much about the deal-breaker comment. Deal-breakers were for long-term things. Serious things. Things that Ally didn’t have the luxury of dreaming about.

Ally took another sip of wine, and they ate their main course in companionable silence, mostly on account of Ally going in for seconds and thirds while Roscoe watched with barely contained glee. Ally didn’t need to tell him it was the best lasagna she’d ever tasted. She’d cleared her plate twice over, and by the end, she was pretty sure it was written all over her face. Literally.

“You’ve got a little…” He leaned in close, stroked the edge of her mouth with his thumb. “Sauce. Right here.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the same spot, lingering long enough to make her heart rate skyrocket.

What was it about this man that had her stomach tying itself into a pretzel? Yes, he was an amazing kisser. Strong. Sexy. Confident, with just the right amount of vulnerability to keep him human. But her attraction to him was so much more than that. This close on the blanket, enveloped by his clean, masculine scent, staring into his boyishly charming hazel eyes, Ally was utterly captivated.

“Have I told you…” Roscoe whispered, his breath tickling her lips. Soft as powder, he trailed his hand up her calf, over her knee, stopping just inside the edge of the fabric, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. “…how much I fucking love this dress?”

Heat flickered in Ally’s chest, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her breath. She nodded mutely, her lips refusing to obey her brain and form actual words. They were all alone out here, hemmed in by towering oaks and maple trees, their cars the only two in the tiny dirt lot beyond. There was nothing stopping them from picking up where they’d left off at Wellshire. Nothing stopping them from sliding out of their clothes, lying back on the blanket, and giving in to the fullest extent of their obvious mutual attraction.

Hadn’t Ally been hoping for just that? Wasn’t it the whole reason she’d taken extra care getting ready tonight? Bought the sexy lingerie, made the grand plan for her graceful, high-note exit?

Ally sighed. Now that the moment was here, she wanted to slow it down. Linger just a little longer in this peaceful, happy bubble where they could play and flirt and kiss and eat delicious Italian food and not worry about the goodbyes looming on the horizon.

Forcing herself to cool it, Ally pulled back and reached for the wine and glasses, filling them up and passing one to Roscoe. If he was thrown off by her actions, he didn’t show it, his eyes just as mischievous as ever.

“So.” Ally sipped her wine, gazed up at the sky. It was still too early to see any meteors, but the thought made her smile anyway. “Tell me your story, Roscoe LeGrand.”

Roscoe laughed. “Which one?”

“I’ve got choices?”

“Always.” He sipped the wine, then tipped his glass toward her with a wink. “But choose wisely, young Jedi, because I’ve only got four stories and I have to ration them out slowly.”

“Since you put it that way,” she said, “Hockey. Start there. Maybe you can help me understand why my kid likes it so much.”

“What’s not to love?” He finished his wine, then set down the glass, talking animatedly with his hands. “You’re out there on the ice, right? And you know you’re part of a team—something bigger than just you. Everyone’s counting on you, and you’re counting on them, and when you’re playing with guys like Dunn and Henny, it’s almost like you can read each other’s minds. On a good night, we’re absolutely in sync, and there’s nothing like it. But it’s also a mindfuck, because in that split-second moment before you make a pass, or wind up for that perfect shot, you are alone. Everything else just disappears. You’re out there by yourself at the edge of the world, no sound, no other guys, no screaming fans. Your entire purpose is narrowed down to that one thing, that one tiny moment, and it all happens in a millisecond. That feeling… God, I wouldn’t trade that for the world.”

Ally nodded. The way he described hockey reminded her of painting, actually. It didn’t happen like that every time, but she remembered times when creating something seemed to transport her to another world. Time stopped. Stress and sounds and other people vanished. For those few moments, there was only Ally and her brush and canvas, colors appearing before her eyes as if she were merely a messenger translating a vision inspired by something too large to comprehend.

She smiled at the unexpected memory, glad that Roscoe’s story had unearthed it for her.

“When did you first start?” she asked.

“I think I was about four?” Roscoe said. “There was this huge pond down our block, and every winter it would freeze solid enough for the neighborhood kids to skate on it. My brothers all played, but they’d never let me go. Then one day my mother, who was particularly tired of my whining, told them they couldn’t go out unless they let me tag along.” Roscoe laughed. “I don’t remember walking there, or putting on the skates or anything like that. I just remember the feeling of being out there, freezing my little balls off, trying to watch and learn, just so damn excited they were actually letting me play. Mom says I never took no for an answer again. My brothers outgrew it, but I never stopped skating. I can’t even tell you how many times I ditched school just to be out on the ice.”

“Is that why you barely passed?”

“That is one of many reasons, but yeah.” Roscoe ran a hand through his hair, his eyes sparkling in the fading sun. “I love hockey, Al. It’s my whole world.”

“Really? I had no idea.” Ally laughed, and Roscoe started telling her about his rookie days with the Tempest.

She loved hearing his stories, loved the way he lit up as he talked about his game. He was so full of joy and passion—not just about hockey, but with everything. The food, the wine, bingo and bowling, the way he touched her… God, everything about him was just bursting with life and vitality. Just being near him made her feel like a kid spinning around in the sun, twirling and laughing until she collapsed in a dizzy, delirious heap.

It was addicting.

Suddenly, she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to feel the press of his lips again, the hot slide of his tongue, the commanding touch of his hands on her thighs. Screw her worries and her failsafe plan—right now, the only thing Ally wanted was to be utterly claimed by this man.

There was a pause in the story. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and Ally gasped.

Roscoe cocked his head. “You okay?”

Ally nodded, mute. What had he been talking about?

“I take it you’re not impressed?”

“I’m… I…” Try as she might, Ally was lost. “I must’ve zoned out.”

“Are you kidding me?” Roscoe laughed. “That was my best story. Seriously.”

“Sorry.” Ally held up her empty glass. “I think it’s the wine.”

“A glass and a half?” Roscoe smirked. “Maybe I’m just boring you into a coma. I told you to choose your stories wisely. Now I’ll have to tell you the one about—”

“Roscoe?” Ally leaned forward, resting her palms on his thigh as she lowered her gaze to his succulent mouth. Maybe it was the wine, or the sultry summer air, or the way Roscoe was staring at her like he’d never seen anyone so beautiful, but Ally was overcome with a feeling of boldness that bordered on reckless, and she did not want to let the opportunity pass. “Maybe you should just kiss me instead.”