The next morning, I woke up in the same bedroom where I’d slept as a teenager, with the exact same damn problem I’d had all the time as a teenager: I dreamed of Naomi, and I woke up hard.

I checked the clock to make sure she wouldn’t possibly walk in on me, pushing a vacuum cleaner, and then fell back down in the white sheets, trying to remember all the wispy, beautiful details. My palms caressing Naomi’s breasts, the warmth of her skin against my rough touch, the pertness of her nipples between my fingers…

Naomi and I had never done anything more than kiss when we were teenagers. Barely that. I knew quite a bit more about how to please a woman now than I had then. I wanted to show her.

For now, I had to settle for relieving my stress one way and then another, heading out for a long run that followed the twists and turns of the shoreline. Whenever the road split, I chose the fork that led back towards the ocean. I ran under the new green vibrancy of summer trees; the air here smelled fresher, cleaner than anywhere else in the world. And I’d seen a lot of the world.

But I’d been reluctant to come back to Rhode Island. After we moved away, my father Mitch moved permanently into Boston. The big gabled house on the waterfront had been abandoned. It was supposed to have a second life as the family vacation home, but my brothers didn’t seem to feel any more nostalgic than I did. Mitch never left Boston.

Mitch. Mitch would expect a visit.

If I went to Boston, the only person I really wanted to see was Joe, Mitch’s old bodyguard and the hero of my childhood. But at least Boston was an excuse to steal a night away with Naomi.

My feet slapped the pavement in quick rhythm as I turned back down the long country road that led to the family home. The sprawling house that I glimpsed between the trees stood between the country and a rocky white beach; the long green lawns around it were brightened by half-wild pink roses. There was an enormous tiered deck for entertaining, complete with a hot tub and pool, and a sand volleyball court and smooth tennis court where I’d misspent much of my youth. Suddenly I missed rolling a tennis ball between my fingers, bouncing it against the springy, rough court, the jolt of the racket meeting ball. I hadn’t played in years.

Too bad I couldn’t serve with a broken wrist. Too bad I had no one to play with.

I stopped at the circle in front of the house. As I stood gripping the sneaker of one foot in one hand, feeling a warm stretch through my hamstrings, I saw an old blue Jeep park in front of one of the empty garage stalls.

Naomi swung down out of the car–god, she was tiny–with her long hair swinging around her shoulders. The early morning sun caught her subtle auburn highlights. She waved at me as she crossed the driveway, calling out a cheerful hello.

I decided not to point out that she was so petite that getting out of the car was an event. “Hey. I’m glad you’re here. I’m starving.”

She quirked her eyebrow at me as we met on the porch. “I’ll bet you could pour cereal with one hand.”

I unlocked the front door of the house and swung it open for her, keying in the code to the alarm panel. She passed by me, close enough for me to catch the citrus-and-sugar scent of her freshly showered body. Her sneakers squeaked on the inlaid wooden floor as she crossed the entryway.

She glanced at the twin wrought-iron-and-wood staircases that twisted up towards the second floor. “Which room are you in?”

“Mine,” I said. The question made me wonder if she wanted to join me one night; I wouldn’t mind her slipping beneath my covers. I would love to see her smirk part into one of those rare, true smiles, right before I kissed her. “Same one I had as a kid.”

Her lips turned up slightly. “I wondered which one would need new sheets.”

“I don’t need new sheets every day,” I said. “But you are welcome to make me breakfast.”

“You’re such a gentleman.”

In the kitchen, she chopped mushrooms, spinach and ham for an omelet. I found a glass container of fresh cherries in the fridge and set them on the island before sliding onto a stool to watch her.

"I hadn't realized I'd be bored here." I offered her a cherry. She shook her head, her braid swinging over her shoulder. "I convinced one of my brothers to fly in for a weekend, at least. You remember any of them?"

"Are you asking me if you're the only one who made an impression?" she asked, brushing chopped spinach off the blade of her knife.

Naomi made my heart beat too fast, and apparently, I just made Naomi feel snarky. But I had a funny feeling that she wouldn’t be so prickly if she didn’t want me too.

"I remember them a little bit. Josh was right behind us in school. Liam. And then the little one?" Naomi expertly cracked the eggs.

I pulled the trash can out beneath the island, and one by one she tossed the shells into the trash. "Nicky. He's the biggest of us all now."

"Your brothers are even bigger than you?" She glanced up at me, her hazel eyes alight under those long dark lashes. For a long second, our eyes met, and then she dropped her gaze back to the glass bowl.

"Yeah.” And didn’t they just love that? “We Delaneys have to be big. We can't all be as fearsome as you, all that roar in a tiny package."

Naomi smiled at that, stepped to the stove and poured olive oil in a cast iron skillet, clicking on the gas burner. "Fearsome. Sure. How are you bored after one night, anyway?"

"Short attention span, I guess."

“I guess I knew that.”

Well. That sounded barbed.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the cool granite. “What exactly does that mean, Naomi Anne?”

“Nothing,” she said.

God, I wanted to pull her over my lap right here and smack that perfect ass of hers until she told me the truth.

Instead, I said, "You know, I was thinking about going to see Joe. You remember Joe?"

"Yes, I remember Joe. Speaking of. How's your Dad?"

"Fine," I said. Maybe it didn't come across as smoothly as I meant it too, because she turned, her dark eyebrows arching up curiously. Before she could ask me a question I wouldn’t answer, I told her, "You have very expressive eyebrows."

"I don't know what to say to that," she said. "Thanks? Your eyebrows also have a lot of feelings?"

I popped another cherry into my mouth. "Thanks for making me breakfast."

"No problem. It's in the job description." She flipped the omelet expertly. "I remember as a kid, pouring myself a bowl of Cheerios before school, knowing my mom was already at your house making you all eggs and pancakes."

"And bacon," I said. "Always bacon. Is that why you hate me? Because you had to eat Cheerios?"

"I don't hate you."

"It really seems like you hate me."

She returned to the island for the spinach and cheese. "I promise, if I hated you, you'd know it."

She looked up. Her hazel eyes were intent, and with the morning sunshine filtering into the kitchen they looked unearthly, amber and gold. For long seconds, the tension between us seemed to shimmer. Part of me was tempted to lean over and kiss her.

Naomi returned to the stove. "There's nothing about you to hate," she said, her voice light again. "As my sister pointed out, you're gorgeous, rich, a SEAL. On paper, you're perfect."

"On paper. Just curious. Do you have a boyfriend? Husband?"

She held up her scarred left hand. "Didn't you do a thorough analysis of this hand yesterday?"

"You never know. You might not wear your ring."

"I'd wear it if I had it," she said.

I had thought she was single, but still, her reactions had made me wonder. I had to wonder if she was so prickly because she was afraid of getting hurt.

That sucked. But if she was gun-shy about a man like me, she was probably right. I was a fun date, a gentleman, pretty damn good in bed. But I wasn't the marrying type.

Her cell phone rang. She tucked the phone under her chin, smiling apologetically, and carried on her conversation while she eased the omelet out of the pan with a spatula.

“I thought you guaranteed the venue." She looked stricken, her lips parting. "I understand you're doing us a big favor, but the date's already set. I was counting..."

Her brow furrowed as she listened to the rapid-fire speaker on the other end. Naomi's voice was controlled but irritated when she cut back in. “I have a business myself, but when you say you're going to do something, you should… oh, you hung up.”

She dropped the phone on the counter, her mouth down-turned, and slid the omelet across the island. "There. I'm going to get started cleaning."

I cut the omelet in half and pushed the plate back towards her, nodding at it. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. Rejecting the omelet. Rejecting my help. Rejecting me. She headed for the doorway, intent on starting work.

“Naomi Anne.” My voice came out sterner than I meant, but it made her stop in the doorway and turn.

She came back to the island, hesitated, but then blurted out, "I'm trying to do a fundraiser for my kitten rescue. It's the season where we have a lot of expenses and so I've been organizing this clambake on the beach. Low key. Beer. Music. But the venue I'd booked on the beach backed out in favor of a paying gig, and they were my catering plan too, so it's a big mess."

"A clambake? If you're going to go through the trouble of putting on an event, why not something a little more high-end? Higher donation per head?"

She crossed her arms, her chin thrusting slightly. "So you're an expert on fundraisers now too?"

Yes, that's what rich people do. They convince other rich people to give their money away." I thought, involuntarily, of Mitch, and one of his little Mitch-isms that made you wonder if he really was that big a bastard or if he was just playing up the part: the rich don't stay rich through their generosity, son.

"Alice would say I should take lessons from you."

"Alice?"

"My sister. Really? I remember the names of your fifteen brothers and you don't remember Alice? She used to come over here sometimes when she was sick and sleep in one of the guest rooms while Mom cleaned until we were old enough to stay home alone."

"Really? I don't remember that. That's awful."

"Yeah," she said. "It was. So I don't know the high-faluting way to run a fundraiser, sorry. I'm just going to do it my way. Low key. Fun."

"You should listen to your sister.”

"Do you remember her name?"

"Alice. You just said it."

"I thought you might have forgotten it by now."

"Nah. There's no forgetting the Papadopolous girls."

She popped her hands onto her hips. "You mispronounced my last name."

"Say it for me, then."

"Pa. Pa. Do. Po. Lous." She enunciated it strongly; it sounded exactly like what I'd just said.

"Yeah, easy." If she wanted to pick at me, I could play along.

"Really? That’s tough? You speak Arabic, don't you?"

"Among other languages."

"What other languages?"

"A little French, a little Swiss."

"Of course," she said.

"What do you mean, of course?"

"You're so all-around James Bond-y. I'm sure the girls swoon for you, big muscles and those tailored clothes and a little French."

She was leaving out the money, but that was certainly a factor in why some of the girls swooned. I thought Naomi was the opposite, though; my money was always a problem, even when we went to the same high school.

I leaned towards her and murmured huskily, "Vouz semblez amer."

"What does that mean?"

It meant you seem bitter, but suddenly I didn't want to push Naomi that far. She was looking up at me with those big hazel eyes. She probably had her own reasons for feeling that way. Plenty of people had reasons to hate the Delaney family.

I danced a cherry in front of her pursed lips. "You could do a seafood-buffet-and-live-music night at one of the Newport houses. At my house, for that matter. Black tie. People love that kind of thing. They'd pay just to see the inside of this place."

She glared balefully at the cherry. "I was gambling on people loving kittens."

"Who doesn't like kittens? But people also love getting dressed up."

"I don't."

"I do. I own a tux for a reason.”

"I'm not surprised."

"Just like you said, I like to channel my inner James Bond."

She crossed her arms over her chest. The little line between those gorgeous brown eyes, the pouty cast to her lips, all made me feel a surge of attraction. Even if I was pissing her off. "If you think all my ideas are so bad and you're so bored. Why don't you run this fundraiser? I'm swamped. I'd happily delegate."

"Sure," I said, feeling suddenly reckless. "We'll have it here. I think I know an event planner from high school we can bring in, it'll be great."

The look of surprise on her face was worth taking on a pain-in-the-ass project.