Page 121 of Fiery Romance

“Hi, baby!” Island coos to Regan as the two collide. She crouches in front of my daughter. “Pretty girl, I missed you so much.”

“Missed you too,” Regan says, giving her a hug.

Seeing how much Regan adores Island makes me feel like even more of a jerk for what I did Friday night. Island has been a lifesaver, freeing my mind so I can work in peace.

And Regan genuinely loves her.

I’ve never treated anyone my kids hold in high esteem badly—which is why Genevieve, for all her annoying, scheming ways, hasn’t gotten the tail end of my wrath yet.

Island is important to this family. The fact that my body craves her like a drug doesn’t give me an excuse to break the rules I’ve always lived by.

Island rises to her full height, one hand holding Regan and the other tight around her purse strap. Despite her wide smile, her eyes are hard when she looks at me.

“Mr. Bolton, you don’t have to worry. I know it was an ‘in the moment’ thing. No need to apologize or explain. Honestly, it wasn’t that impressionable. I’ve already forgotten about it.”

Oof. That stings.

Pride rears its ugly head.

Should I kiss you again then? I’ll start with your mouth first, sweetheart, but I won’t stay there. By the time I’m done with you, I promise I’ll have you begging for more.

Her eyes narrow on me as if she can read what I’m thinking.

I force myself to back off.

Awkwardness descends. I rub the back of my neck and let the conversation drop.

This isn’t the way I wanted the apology to go down, but I’m also aware that I’m the one in the wrong.

I messed up.

So I’m not going to force my apology on her just to make myself feel better.

If she says she’s moved on, then she has.

And if she says it was forgettable then…

I call B.S.

That kiss knocked my socks off and there’s no way the feeling was one-sided.

“Yoo-hoo!”

The three of us turn and watch as a woman sashays into the park. She’s wearing a tank top with tassels, pants with giant legs that flap like wings and slippers.

I eye her footwear, wondering how she plans on chasing around my rambunctious six-year-old in beach slippers.

Already got a point off from me.

“I’m Ainsley.” She presses her hand together and dips her head. “Namaste.”

I give her a funny look. I’d put my left leg on the block to say she’s got not a single ounce of Indian in her DNA.

But Island’s nicer about it. She returns the greeting.

“Are you mom and dad?” Miss Yoga unleashes a grin baring all her teeth. Her eyes jump between me and Island.

“No, we’re—”

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