Page 55 of From Maybe to Baby

The tiki torches cast everything in flickering gold, making the evening surreal. As if we've slipped into some parallel universe where professional bloggers fall for hockey-playing single dads and sticky-fingered kids with milk mustaches.

Yeah, right.

We sit in silence, close enough that our hands brush, sending a thrilling jolt up my arm.

I’m not gonna lie.

"Thank you," he says after a while, speaking over the incoming tide.

"For what?"

"For today. For, you know, making it special for the kids. For..." he pauses, “for making it special for me, too."

"Jonas..."

"Yeah.” He slides his chair closer, shrinking the space between us and leaving it charged with anticipation. "This probably breaks all kinds of your rules," he says.

"So many rules," I say. But I move closer too, drawn by gravity or fate or maybe just the way he looks at me like I'm something special. Something worth breaking his own rules for. "Professional distance..." I whisper.

"Very professional," he murmurs, his hand finding my cheek, his touch burning hot.

"My three-day rule..."

"Too late for that shit." His smile is naughty.

"Your PR team..." I say, trailing off.

"Don't care." His other hand slides into my hair, and oh, this feels like coming home to a place I've never been. He pulls back for a moment. "Unless you want me to stop?"

I should say yes. Should get up and get the hell out of there. Go back to my room and continue setting up my fancy new laptop, and get writing what I owe Ryan. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Should think about my career, my lifestyle, my carefully constructed child-free existence. I should look over at the mom squad to see whether they’re all up in our business.

Instead, I press my lips to his.

The world stops. At least it seems to. I no longer hear the waves crashing, smell the salt air, or see Jonas.

Because my eyes have fallen closed. My other senses have gone on strike.

His kiss is gentle at first, seeking, but when I make a soft sound against his mouth, something shifts. His hand tightens in my hair, and suddenly there's nothing gentle about it and damn this man, he’s just as sexy as I knew he would be. Everything narrows down to this moment, to his grip on my hair and his other hand holding my chin.

He releases me and I open my eyes again, not wanting to miss a thing.

"That was..." I start, trying to find words that don't sound totally lame.

I can feel his smile. "Very professional?"

"Quite. Quite professional. As professional things go." My hands find their way under his Hawaiian shirt, the bright pink and green one the kids convinced him to buy, which he doesn’t like but wears for them. I trace the muscles I've been watching since I first spotted him at the pool, around the time his children destroyed my laptop and we were forced to talk and negotiate, and I tried so hard to be mad and failed miserably. “I guess I could say this is part of my research. Thorough research."

He laughs, the sound vibrating through me. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What else would we call it?"

His answer is another kiss, deeper this time, like he's trying to tell me something. Like he's been wanting to do this, like he's been thinking about this since that first splash in the pool.

This is just lust. Pure attraction. Breaking rules. Nothing more. A silly vacation romance with a hot, famous athlete who will forget about me the minute he boards the plane to head home.

But damn if his hand in my hair doesn’t feel like it belongs, and his kiss doesn’t taste like a connection.

A cry breaks through our haze.

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