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“What—” I licked my dry lips. “What do you feel?”

“Everything,” he said against my knuckles. “You.”

Hot breath skimmed up my wrists and I shivered for an entirely different reason.

“So pretty,” he murmured, eyes searching mine. “I see you more clearly now than I ever have.”

I pressed my forehead to his, eyes screwed shut. “So do I. You’re—”

His nose touched mine and I felt it—the damp, cold air clinging to his skin.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can tell me that you think I’m handsome.”

I laughed, shoulders shaking. “You’re full of yourself. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Once or twice.” He lifted his head, amusement flashing across his features. “Besides, I can see the way you blush for me.” He smudged his thumb across the flush on my cheeks.

“Now you’re just being rude.”

Wolfe chuckled. “It’s lovely, grá. You are lovely. All your blushes. The crinkles you get by your eyes.” I held still, letting him run his index finger over the curve of my jaw. “This mouth.” His gaze was trained on it and for a moment, I thought he looked hungry. “No,” he said, almost to himself. “You haunt me, Avery Eden. I think you always will.”

I wanted to kiss him.

To thread my fingers into his hair and swallow down his sighs. Burn under his hands. Let him feel just how terribly my heart was beating for him.

“We should go.” He withdrew, taking his heat with him. “Maybe I can read to you this time?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“A terror.” I popped the car into drive. “A real menace.”

Wolfe settled in his seat, his head back against the rest and turned toward me.

“A dream,” he murmured. “I hope I never wake up.”

Emotion clogged my throat. I couldn’t look at him. God, I could barely breathe. I sent us home to Kilmorran, wondering how I would ever be able to leave him behind.

Once we were both dried off, we met again in the sitting room.

Wolfe traded out his usual white linen shirt for one in the color of dark, red wine. It brought a pop of color to his cheeks and highlighted the gold in his eyes.

“I found an old trunk,” he explained. “Up in the attic.”

I found myself unable to speak. I’d never been so flustered around anyone before. Unflappable, my publishers called me.

They were wrong.

“It looks good,” I admitted timidly. “I like it on you.”

He grinned, the motion more animal than man. “Sit.” He patted the space beside him and I folded myself onto the couch, aware of all the places we didn’t touch.

He struggled to arrange the pillows, hands fading in and out. I helped where I could, eyeing the lines of irritation by his mouth. Eventually, I settled down beside him, my head nearly on his lap. He slumped into the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table. Wolfe fumbled for the book, opting to set it on top of a pillow on his lap. His fingers were faint, but he turned the page with a small burst of air.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading to you, remember?” He found the place I’d left off on, pages fluttering. “Hasn’t anyone read to you before?”

I thought back to my childhood. I read plenty. Even when my parents weren’t home, I used a flashlight and hid under my covers. My nanny wouldn’t have cared, but I still felt like I was doing something reckless by forgoing sleep to read after midnight.

“I’m sure when I was a baby, maybe,” I answered quietly. “I can’t remember.”