An undercurrent of s.e.xual tension wrapped around them, drawing their bodies even closer together. His breath whispered into her mouth. "Sky..."

Her mind spun. When he slid a hand to the nape of her neck, still gazing into her eyes, silently asking for her approval, she answered him with a press of her lips to his. His lips were softer than any she'd ever kissed, pillowy and inviting. The first slide of their tongues was cold and deliciously sweet, sending shivers through her even as their kiss grew hotter. Their tongues tangled together, searching, tasting, taking. Despite her outward calm, her insides were racing, heating, getting all too stirred up for a first date.

She forced herself to pull back, and in the s.p.a.ce of a second their lips came together in another tender kiss. It was sweet and languid, and too incredible to stop. The ice cream fell from her hands, and without breaking the kiss, she pressed her palms to his cheeks and deepened it. His mouth was demanding, his whiskers scratchy, and his lips-his gloriously soft lips-slowly slipped away.

No. Come back.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, fisted his hand in the back of her hair, and drew her in closer again.

"Sorry," he whispered against her lips. "I really didn't intend to-"

"Uh-huh." She couldn't resist pressing her lips to his again, and just as quickly, she reluctantly retreated. "My fault," she managed. She shouldn't do this. She wasn't used to moving so fast, and yet she felt powerless to resist him.

She physically scooted away, putting a few inches between them. "s.p.a.ce. We need...We should...Gosh, Sawyer. I never kiss like that on a first date."

He grinned and said, "Lucky me," without missing a beat.

"Yes, but..." I want to kiss you again and again. Would three weeks be too long of a kiss?

A car door slammed and a little boy ran up the stoop beside Sawyer. "Look, Mommy! She dropped her cone!" His mother gave an embarra.s.sed smile as she shooed her son inside.

Sawyer and Sky both laughed as he cleaned up the discarded cone and tossed it into the trash. He reached for her hand and they walked back to the car.

Fifteen minutes-and a car ride full of furtive glances-later, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the temperature cooled, they arrived at Stony Brook and parked across the street from the gristmill. Sky had been to Stony Brook many times, as it was only a few minutes from where she'd grown up. It had always been one of her favorite places, with the old stone gristmill and the babbling brook. There were elaborate gardens with romantic walking paths surrounding Stony Brook Pond by the mill across the road and a wooden bridge that arched over the water. It was about as picturesque as anything could be, and with her heart still pinging around in her chest, she had to dig deep to stop thinking about their kisses and focus on why they were there.

"How do you know that C. J. Moon wrote about the brook?" Sky asked as they walked up the gra.s.sy incline on the property across the street from the mill, toward the babbling brook.

Sawyer's eyes grew serious, as if he was wrestling with his answer.

"You don't have to tell me if it's some kind of secret." She knew from her friend Kurt Remington, a bestselling thriller writer, that writers could be covetous of their privacy, and obviously C. J. Moon went to great lengths to keep his ident.i.ty a secret. She was intrigued by how Sawyer knew anything more about Moon's poems than what was online, but she was even more intrigued by his apparent conflict over sharing the hows and whys of his knowledge. She had to respect a man who honored his commitments-unless he was making the whole thing up, and this was one big farce to get into her pants.

"I knew Moon a long time ago, but the man I knew is...no longer around," he finally said as they came to the crest of the hill. The brook snaked out before them, lined by pitch pines on one side and a rocky incline on the other. Gra.s.s ran between the rocks, making them look as if they were featured in the landscape.

Sky heard sadness in Sawyer's voice and immediately disregarded her thought about his making up his friendship with C. J. Moon.

"I'm sorry. At least you had a chance to know him. He was such a talented man. He was a man, wasn't he? Online they refer to the writer as a man, but I know that sometimes that isn't the case with pen names."

He nodded, and his eyes turned thoughtful as he led her down the hill toward the brook. The sounds of the water running over the rocks and the whispering of the leaves against the evening breeze filled the silence between them.

"Yes, he was definitely a man. A good, honest, and virile man."

"I get the sense from his work that he was all those things, as well as sensitive. He wrote such lovely and powerful poems."

"He was, Sky." He took a giant step from the gra.s.s to a rock, then turned and set his hands on her hips, steadying her as he helped her down. His touch was gentle yet strong. He gazed into her eyes with a conflicted look she didn't understand.

"Sky...Are you familiar with the poem, 'Race of the Pebble'?"

"Her current changed beneath the light of the moon." She'd read the poem so many times the words flowed without thought, bringing a smile to his lips. "Lighter, darker, narrow, shallow. Dancing in her depths. Swept up in her ecstasy. Tumbling, turning, out of control...It's one of my favorites, because it holds true to so many things."

"That's exactly what he said when he wrote it. I was with him. I was only a kid, but I remember it like it was yesterday."

"You were with him? I can't imagine how great that must have been."

Sawyer stood on a rock beside the brook, gazing at the water as it trickled by. "It meant a great deal to me. All of our time together has." He paused, and when he met her gaze again, that conflicted look was back.

"Sky, C. J. Moon is my father."

"Your father?" She watched as sadness and pride swept over his face in a look so troubled she reached for his hand. "I don't understand. You said he was no longer around. Did he pa.s.s away?"

He shook his head. "My father is very much alive, and you're the first person I have revealed his pen name to. I'm not even sure why I did, but it felt like I was lying to you, and I know this is our first date, but I didn't want to lie to you."

"Sawyer." His name came out as a whisper. She was so touched by his confession, but the sadness that lingered in his voice made her ache.

"He has Parkinson's," Sawyer explained. "It's been really difficult and heartbreaking to watch his health decline. He hasn't written since shortly after he got his diagnosis."

Wrapping her arms around Sawyer came naturally, and even though part of her worried that the comfort might embarra.s.s such a strong man, she couldn't stop herself. They remained like that for a long moment, with the sky turning dark above them. She felt herself opening up to the sensitive man she'd only just met.

When they finally parted, his lips curved up in an appreciative smile. She didn't push for more information about his father, and when he asked her if she was from the Cape, she knew he needed to change the subject.

"Yes. I grew up in Brewster," she answered. "How about you?"

"Hyannis, actually. If you're from Brewster, then you probably know all about how the herring run from Cape Cod Bay into Paine's Creek, then into Stony Brook, and ultimately into Stony Brook Pond."

They began walking along the rocks again, and she stumbled.

"Careful." Sawyer caught her. His fingers tightened around her waist, and it wasn't the heat wrapping around them again that brought her closer, or the way his pupils flared. It was what she felt coming off of him in waves, something longing and real, that she recognized but couldn't name.

"My father used to take us to see the herring run in the spring."

She felt herself wanting to know more about his childhood, and to share more of herself. This was too fast. Wasn't it? How could she feel so comfortable with a guy after just a few hours? She didn't know what to do, but the heat between them was melting her brain cells a handful at a time, and he was opening up to her, trusting her with his father's true ident.i.ty, and that was melting her heart at the same time. Pretty soon she'd turn to liquid and trickle away with the brook.

He laced his fingers with hers and she gave in to a smile as they fell into step beside each other again.

"I think I'm just as enamored now with how the fish run upstream as I was as a kid. I have great memories of running alongside the brook, watching the fish with my older brothers, Pete, Matt, Hunter, and Grayson."

His eyes widened as he sat down on a rock, bringing her down beside him. "You have four brothers? No sisters?"

She shook her head.

"I bet you were spoiled when you were growing up, as the only girl."

"Maybe a little, but I loved keeping up with them. At least until I was about twelve, when I started really getting into painting and drawing. My dad built me this amazing art studio in the backyard. It's a shed, really, but when you're a kid and your father respects and supports your talents enough to build you your own s.p.a.ce? Then it feels like a mansion."

He covered her hand with his. "It sounds like you have a wonderful family. Are you all still close?"

"We are. Maybe a little too close." She laughed. "My brothers are a little protective of me."

"Like Blue?"

She laughed and shook her head. "A little worse than Blue. Kind of like lions protecting their den." She squinted, thinking about how protective they were. "Yeah, like that."

"Or like older brothers protecting their only sister?" He kissed the back of her hand. She liked that he was so affectionate with her. "It's cool. I respect that. My friend Brock has two younger sisters, and I'm probably about as protective of them as Blue is with you. But Brock? It sounds like he's more like your brothers. I think it comes with sibling territory."

"Maybe. I adore them all, even if they're protective of me. But enough about me. What about you? Do you have siblings?"

"No. It's just me and my folks. I'm close with both of them, though. They're one of the few couples who have made it through thick and thin and still managed to stay happily married. I see them often, and I told you about my dad's illness, so I stick close to home. How about your parents? Are you close?"

She dropped her gaze as a familiar pang rattled inside her. They'd gotten so far off track from talking about the poem, but it had been a long time since she talked about anything other than frivolities that she didn't want to stop. And after hearing about his father, she felt they had even more in common, and she wanted to share that with him, too.

"My mom pa.s.sed away a few years ago."

"I'm sorry." He squeezed her hand. "Were you close?"

"Very. When I was away at college we talked every week, and she'd send me the funniest cards and cookies and..." She swallowed past the thickening in her throat. "Wow. I haven't talked about our relationship in ages. I had such a hard time when she pa.s.sed away, but I thought I'd moved past it. I didn't realize how emotional I still was over losing her."

Most guys would probably fidget and change the subject, but Sawyer opened his arms and gathered her in close. He pressed his hand to the back of her head without saying a word, and it was exactly what she needed. She soaked in the comfort of his embrace and the thoughtfulness of his silence.

"Thank you for understanding," she said, feeling mildly self-conscious. "I'm sorry for being so emotional."

"Don't be sorry for feeling something. That's the world's great separator-those who feel and react to their feelings and those who cower from them."

"Sawyer..." She didn't know what she wanted to say, but everything he said touched her profoundly, as if he'd climbed into her head and taken notes about the way she saw things.

"Sorry. I know I have a strange view on things." He set his hand on her leg and shifted his eyes to the brook.

She reached for his hand. "If it's strange, then I'm strange, too, because it's exactly how I see things. I just worried that I was overwhelming you. You know..." She smiled and shrugged. "TMI and all that."

"After dealing with my father's illness, I've learned that there isn't much that can overwhelm me." He held her gaze. "And certainly not anything having to do with emotions."

She sighed with relief. "I've dated a few guys who didn't really get me." She fidgeted with the edge of her shirt. "From my choice of clothing to the way I live my life."

"How's that?" he asked.

"Kind of like your father's 'Race of the Pebble' poem, I guess. Fluid beauty rushing, rippling. Needful and overflowing. Not the beauty part, but feeling like I'm moving through life and accepting it as it comes, just sort of soaking it all in. I don't stress over what could be or over making a ten-year plan. I live life for now, and if I'm happy with what I'm doing and the people I'm spending my time with, then life is good. If I'm not, then I'll reevaluate."

He touched her cheek and said, "I know exactly what you mean, including the beauty part."

He gazed at her for a long moment, and she felt the warmth of him flowing through her veins-and ached for another kiss.

When he gazed back at the brook, he said, "You know how the herring are thick when they run upstream and they churn the brook as they jump the concrete steps toward the pond?"

There was something so soothing about his voice that it quieted Sky's desire for that kiss, filling another part of her-a part she couldn't pinpoint and hadn't realized was also longing to be touched.

"When my father was penning that poem, he said to me, Son-he always calls me that, never calls me by name-see more than others see. Be more than others are. You're too interesting to be single layered. Too many people go through life seeing only what they expect. They view life waiting to be heard, rather than listening and seeing what others do not." Sawyer's eyes warmed as he turned toward Sky.

"He taught me how to accept everything, from my range of emotions to differing lifestyles and opinions. He looked beyond the miraculous way the herring managed to make their way upstream and saw the pebbles below that were being tossed and turned from the herring's movements. And he spoke of the pebbles as if they were alive. I think he taught me to think of everything that way-as if it were alive."

He gazed up at the star-studded sky, and she saw his Adam's apple jump as he swallowed whatever memories made him grow silent.

"I promised you dinner. We should probably go." He pulled her in close again.

He was more than a head taller than her, and with the moonlight at his back, he looked even more handsome than he had when she'd first seen him at Governor Bradford's. Sky knew it was because he'd shared so much of himself with her that his looks moved to the background and his emotions filled the s.p.a.ce between them. She'd never met a man who opened up so easily. She'd thought that she and Blue were as close as two friends could get, but it had taken a few weeks until they shared these types of intimate conversations-and even then they felt like they rode the surface compared to her conversation with Sawyer. She was a little overwhelmed by the sense of feeling like she knew him so well after just a few hours.

"Thank you," he said, as he tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes.

"For?"

"For reminding me of some of the best moments in my life. I hadn't forgotten them, but I hadn't revisited them in so long that I had almost forgotten how special they were."

He drew her close again and held her. His heart beat against her cheek, and despite wanting to kiss him again and again and again, she reveled in this moment of closeness.

Chapter Four.

SAWYER AND SKY ordered lobster rolls at a walk-up restaurant on the Provincetown pier and ate while sitting on the beach. The sand was cool and the breeze coming off the water was brisk, but when Sawyer touched Sky's hand, her skin was warm. They talked for a long while, and he realized that they both enjoyed similar styles of music-ranging from Top 40 to country and jazz, and they both hated sauerkraut, mustard, and mullets, which they shared a laugh over as they lay back on the beach, their sides touching, and gazed up at the stars.

"Do you ever wonder how different your life might be if just one element had been altered?" Sky asked.

"Like if I hadn't gone into boxing?"

She turned to face him, her eyes wide. "You're a boxer?"

"I didn't mention that?" Sawyer wasn't surprised that she didn't recognize him. Not just because she probably didn't follow boxing, but because he'd never accepted any offers for sponsorships. The idea of having his face plastered over a billboard selling boxing equipment or pushing certain clothing lines or energy drinks had always turned him off. Sponsorships were for guys whose egos needed stroking. The only stroking Sawyer's ego required was done by his own compet.i.tive nature to be the best. Winning his boxing matches was all the notoriety he needed-and if it had come without a belt, he wouldn't have cared. He'd have trained just as hard, fought just as tough, to know in his own head that he was the best d.a.m.n fighter in his division. And it was that determination that would secure his father's financial future.

"No," Sky said. "I would have definitely remembered that."

The distaste in her tone surprised him. Usually women went crazy over his career.

"I'm sorry if I didn't mention it." He pushed up on one elbow so he could look into her beautiful, though wary, eyes.

"You actually get into a ring and punch people?" she asked. "And they punch you?"

He smiled at the simplification. "Yes, but it's really more than that."

"Enlighten me," she said, pushing up on her elbow so they were eye to eye.

"I take it you're not a fan?" He reached for her hand to see how far she was withdrawing, and thankfully, she laid her hand in his.

"I don't love the idea of fighting," she said. "But to think that you willingly do it? Let's just say I'm curious, but not a fan, no."

"When I was a kid, I was in organized sports. Pee-wee football, soccer, baseball. And as I got older I was frustrated because the bottom line of winning or losing was out of my control. I wanted something where winning or losing came down to my own skills. My own drive and determination. My dad traveled a lot when I was younger, and my mom was busy, and I went searching..."