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Then memory cuts through the fog.

Sharp and immediate. Her mouth on mine. My hand in her hair.

The way she'd laughed against my lips before kissing me again.

I should blame it on stress. Or adrenaline.

Or the fact that we've spent the past week being stalked by what may or may not be a Victorian ghost with boundary issues.

Instead, I settle on the truth.

I wanted her. Still do.

With a certainty that feels old and inevitable.

Carefully, I perform a quick dignity check.

Shirt on. Pants on.

No obvious signs of indecorous behavior.

Liza is wrapped in the blanket like a burrito.

My arm is probably numb beyond repair.

Gomez is kneading my chest with the determination of a tiny contractor.

I try to shift him. He glares, and I accept my defeat.

Liza stirs, then stretches.

Lifts her head just enough to squint at me.

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

Then she says, "Your heart's going a thousand miles an hour."

I resist the urge to swear.

"Sorry." She snorts. Then yawns so hard her eyes water.

"I'm not. It's nice."

Dangerous territory. Very dangerous territory.

I attempt a tactical retreat. "You okay?"

Her eyes narrow immediately.

"If you're about to apologize for kissing me, I swear to God I'm going to make you do it again."

I stare at her.

"For practice," she adds.

The woman is a menace. A beautiful menace.

I try—and fail—to keep a straight face.