Sunday, July 25. 5:34 p.m. Khandallah, a northern suburb in Wellington, New Zealand.

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Ana was in camping hell.

She kneeled at the far end of the tent, with little pattering sounds of water dripping steadily off her shirt and onto the ground sheet. Rain like rattling gunfire hit the tent’s nylon sides and something lumpy under the tent floor dug into her kneecap. Her underwear, also sopping, had wedged itself in an extremely uncomfortable place, and the only thing she had to look forward to, since dry clothes were off the menu, was a can of cold baked beans.

Daniel ducked into the tent, took one look at the come any closer and I’ll cut you vibes she was giving off, and zipped open his backpack.

“Here.” He tossed her his woolen sweater. “Get that wet gear off and put this on.”

“You’re soaking, too, and it’s your sweater.” Repressing a shiver, she threw it back. “You should put it on.”

He caught it with one hand and immediately returned it, aiming so the garment landed on her head. “We’re not having this argument. Get your shirt off and the sweater on before you get hypothermia.”

Stripping to bare skin in this tiny space with Daniel only a few feet away made hypothermia an attractive option in her opinion.

“You don’t want to get sick overnight. You need to be strong for tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Note to self: she was beginning to hate it when he was right—which was pretty much all the time. “Turn around.”

He obediently shuffled to face the entrance, and while he was looking away, she couldn’t help admire the broad shoulders and defined slabs of muscle beneath the wet fabric of his shirt.

The cotton slurped as she peeled it away from her skin and over her head. Bra on or off? She bit her lip. The light synthetic fabric would dry rapidly and the idea of having something dry to put on in the morning was the deciding factor. Bra off. Wriggling into the sweater, she exhaled at the relief of dry wool settling against her clammy skin. She had a momentary flash of heat flare across her cheekbones as she draped her shirt and bra over one of the poles to dry. Pretty sure the sight of her sensible beige full-coverage bra wasn’t going to send Daniel into a paroxysm of lust-driven madness, she ignored the urge to shove them closer together on the pole so her lingerie wouldn’t be so obvious.

“I’m done,” she said.

Daniel didn’t turn around. “No, you’re not. Take the bottom half of your clothes off, too. You’re still soaking.”

“Like hell.” And this time the flare of heat in her face flamed red hot, spreading to her pelvic muscles, which tightened with the same fire. Take everything off? Spend the night bare-assed naked in a tent with a man she was fiercely attracted to?

That was begging for her rusty libido to take over and cause her to do something really dumb.

“The sweater will cover you to your knees. Isn’t that long enough to preserve your modesty?” he asked.

“That’s hardly the point.”

He half turned to face her, one brow raised and those maddening dimples winking. “What is the point, then? Surely you’re not so uptight you’d prefer to spend the night in wet, uncomfortable clothes?”

Uptight, huh? She pushed up the sweater’s too-long sleeves and pinned him with a stare that used to make witnesses on the stand squirm.

“The point is, Farm Boy, why am I the only one being asked to strip?”

He chuckled while he unbuttoned his shirt. “Better?”

She managed a nonchalant shrug, though under the sweater her nipples brushed sensitively against the thick knitted fabric.

Lord, he was beautiful.

Undeniably male, but still beautiful. He had the chest of an athlete, muscled and defined, with a smattering of sandy-colored hairs covering his pectorals. No hair covered the sleek cut of his abs but it reappeared in a fine trail below his belly button and temptingly disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

Daniel’s hands drifted down to rest on his belt buckle.

She hypnotically followed their movement as he pulled the belt through the buckle. The hiss of his zipper sliding open triggered her sanity.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” she squeaked, twisting to face the tent’s back wall.

She wouldn’t sit there watching him take his jeans off like a woman drooling over a bachelorette’s night stripper. A grunt of amusement drifted over the sounds of denim rasping against bare skin.

Nipples aching, skin flushed hot—so much for being cold—Ana worried her teeth against her bottom lip and reminded herself of the reasons why nothing was going to happen between them in this damn tent. Unbelievable that less than an hour ago they’d been in the midst of a tension-filled conversation. Now a different kind of tension suffused the atmosphere.

She inhaled quietly. No need to alert him to the difficulty she was having in regaining her composure. Their earlier conversation should’ve been enough to rid her of this unhealthy interest in him. Daniel had been sympathetic about her past failed relationships, yet he seemed not to grasp the fact that was patently obvious to her. A long-term relationship between them couldn’t succeed and she didn’t do quick, mindless flings.

More rustling sounds came from behind her.

Perhaps she’d read too much into his words. She leaped to the conclusion that he was talking about relationships, when he could be one of those guys who’d throw a ‘Love ya, babe’ at you with no more thought than a friendly high-five.

“You can turn around now,” he said.

She hesitated, wondering what state of undress she would find him in.

“I’m perfectly modest.”

He’d changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt. His hand extended toward her with a pair of plain black boxer shorts dangling off his fingertips.

“You can put these on under the sweater, if you like. They’re clean.”

“Thank you.” She thought she sounded quite gracious, considering the circumstances.

“You’re welcome.”

His dimpled and disarming grin left her flustered. She plucked the shorts from him and without asking he turned his back again. The cotton was smooth and cool against her fingers and she looked at them in disbelieving amusement. Could things get any more bizarre than wearing Daniel’s underwear?

Wet pants and errant panties came off in an awkward frenzy. Funny how she had gone from thinking of him as a stranger to just Daniel. Distancing herself from him by labelling him a stranger was no longer possible. She dropped her wet clothes to the floor and wriggled into the boxer shorts. They were too large around the waist and slipped to rest on her hipbones, but at least they were blissfully dry and gave her a sense of security, however false.

“This time I’m done.” She gathered up her pants and panties and hung them up beside her other wet clothes. Beige bra, white panties. Sheesh, she hadn’t even checked she’d grabbed a matching pair when she’d rolled out of bed Friday morning. Wasn’t exactly expecting anyone with XY chromosomes to be eyeballing her lingerie.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Yes.” She decided not to elaborate on how it actually felt wearing two items of clothing that, although clean, still carried a trace of his scent.

“Cold baked beans for dinner.” He sat cross-legged beside his backpack and pulled out a can, the same one she’d thrown earlier. “Or maybe we should save this in case someone else needs taking down a notch or two?”

“Like who—you?”

“I don’t need a whack in the head with a can to cut my ego down to size. One Ice Lawyer look of yours is enough to do that.” He drew a can opener out of the bag.

“Yet you keep coming back for more.”

“I’m a persistent kind of guy.”

She shook her head and laughed. “Persistent or plain bull-headed?”

“A little of both.” He tossed her a plastic spoon.

“Just open the can. I’m starving.”

While he set up a battery-powered lantern and used the can opener, Ana dug the sleeping bag out of her backpack and unrolled it in the center of the confined space. Mrs. Wilcox had insisted she take it, apologizing with a wink after telling her that it was only big enough for one person.

They sat side by side on top of the sleeping bag, the open can between them. She could’ve been swallowing mouthfuls of tomato-sauce-covered clumps of dirt for all the taste the beans had. Part of that was her dislike of baked beans, since for a few years after Theo was born—and being too proud to ask her parents for a handout—cheap canned food like baked beans had been a staple part of her diet. More disturbing than the memories of the first hard years of solo parenting was the overwhelming physical presence of the man opposite her.

Every move he made demonstrated the theory of cause and effect. For every action, she countered with an equal and opposite reaction. When he dipped his spoon into the tin, her hand jerked away so their fingers wouldn’t touch. If his knee moved forward, hers edged backward.

Outside the rain continued to batter the sides of the tent in intermittent spurts. The nylon hissed and the ropes hummed as occasional wind gusts buffeted them. In the distance thunder rumbled hollowly. She thought of Daniel’s voice booming as he shouted at her after the fight, fury in every fiber of his tone. She had to ask.

“Daniel?” She kept her voice gentle. “Who’s Jodie?”