Page 18 of Our Bay Will Come

I take a sip of coffee to hide my smile. "I thought maybe you could show me around. I've never really explored Seattle properly."

"Tourist stuff? Space Needle, Pike Place?"

"Whatever you want. It's your city."

She studies me momentarily, those bright blue eyes assessing every inch. "You're leaving it up to me?"

"I'm at your mercy," I confirm, and the slight darkening of her eyes tells me she likes that idea.

"Dangerous words, Carmichael." She stands, collecting our plates. "Let me clean up and change, then we'll head out."

I offer to help with the dishes, but she waves me off. "Guest privileges. This time only."

While she disappears into what I assume is her bedroom, I wander around the living room, taking in the details. Her bookshelves are crammed with design books, novels, and framed photos—mostly of her and Cilla, a few with an older couple I guess are their parents. One shelf holds various design awards and a framed magazine article about her business.

"Snooping?" Her voice startles me.

I turn to find her leaning against the doorframe, now dressed in fitted jeans and a soft-looking sweater that hangs off one shoulder. She's added minimal makeup and twisted her hair into something more intentional.

"Admiring," I correct. "You've done well for yourself."

"I have," she agrees, without false modesty. "Ready to go?"

We spend the day doing exactly what she suggests—all the tourist spots I've never bothered to visit despite living just hours away. We ride to the top of the Space Needle, wander through Pike Place Market where she knows all the vendors by name, and eat lunch at a tiny hole-in-the-wall place with the best seafood I've ever tasted.

Throughout it all, we talk—about everything and nothing—Prue's business challenges, my construction projects, books we've read, movies we've seen. I learn that she hates olives but loves pickles, that she breaks out in hives if she eats strawberries, and that she once spent a summer backpacking through Europe alone after college.

I find myself telling her things I rarely share—about my time in Afghanistan, my parents, and the nightmares that sometimes still wake me. She listens without judgment and asks questions without pushing too hard.

By late afternoon, we're walking along the waterfront, shoulders bumping occasionally, hands brushing without quite holding. The sexual tension that's been simmering all day ratchets up with each accidental touch.

"Should we head back?" she asks after a particularly lingering contact. Her voice has that slightly husky quality I remember from our first night together.

"If you want," I say, trying to sound casual despite the heat building in my core.

The walk back to her place is filled with charged silence. We're barely through her front door before she turns to me, eyes dark with want.

"I've been thinking about you all week," she admits, stepping closer. "It's extremely annoying."

I laugh, relief and desire flooding through me. "Believe me, I know the feeling."

"This doesn't change anything," she warns, even as her hands rest on my chest. "I'm still not looking for?—"

"I know," I interrupt, cupping her face. "No expectations, remember?"

She nods, then rises on her tiptoes to press her lips to mine. The kiss starts gently but quickly ignites, weeks of text-message tension exploding into physical reality. Her hands tangle in my hair as mine slide down to grip her hips, pulling her flush against me.

"Bedroom," she gasps against my mouth. "Now."

I scoop her up without hesitation, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her down the hallway. She directs me between kisses—"Left, that door"—until we stumble into herbedroom, a serene space with a massive bed that becomes my immediate focus.

I lay her down gently, but she pulls me with her, unwilling to break contact. We kiss deeply, hands roaming, relearning each other's bodies in the afternoon, light streaming through her windows.

"Too many clothes," she murmurs, tugging at my shirt. I help her remove it, then return the favor with her sweater, leaving her in a simple black bra contrasting beautifully with her pale skin.

"You're gorgeous," I breathe, trailing kisses down her neck and collarbone.

"Less talking, more action," she demands, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

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