FIFTY-FIVE

WITH a relaxed stride, Quinn’s long legs moved into my kitchen.

Showered, shaved, and nearly dressed for the day, he hung his leather holster and suit coat on the back of a chair and, following the order of my pointing finger, rolled up his white shirtsleeves and settled his forearms on the table.

As I poured him a fresh-brewed cup, he surprised me by hooking one of his strong arms around my waist. “Can’t a guy get a good-morning kiss before coffee?”

“You sure about that? There’s no caffeine on these lips.”

“Let’s find out . . .” He tugged me closer, and I set down the pot. “Yeah,” he agreed after testing his theory. “No caffeine, yet incredibly stimulating . . .”

“That’s nice,” I said as our morning kiss ended—or so I thought.

When I began to move away, Quinn not only tugged me back, he pulled me off my feet and onto his lap.

“Mike! What are you doing?”

“I just remembered. We’re officially engaged, so . . .”

“So what?”

“So you deserve more than a ‘nice’ kiss . . .”

With a smile in his eyes, Quinn took over my mouth, his lips and tongue leaving me breathless. When his callused hands slipped under my sweater, I gave in to the moment, my fingers tangling in his short sandy hair.

Aromas of hot coffee, sizzling bacon, and fresh pumpkin bread filled the kitchen, but he was still hungry for me—a realization that convinced me, for the next few minutes anyway, that I was the happiest woman alive.

“I guess I better get my own pair of those shoes,” I rasped against his lips, a few minutes later.

He laughed. “It’s not the shoes. It’s the woman they’re strapped to.”

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you: this woman has a busy day ahead of her, and so do you.”

I gently pushed his chest, and he reluctantly let me go.

On shaky legs, I moved to the counter, fighting hard to rid my molecules of the need to either pull Mike back upstairs or (with last night’s suggestive cocktail coming to mind) unbuckle the man’s pants and initiate a slow, comfortable coupling against the kitchen wall.

I could see him wrestling with the same temptations, so I supplied another: a plate of glistening, sweetly glazed bacon. While I didn’t relish putting myself in competition with fatty strips of meat, the tactic was (to quote Franco) effective.

Quinn’s focus quickly shifted from me to the caramelized pork belly. Then his own belly took over, trumping his libido, and the kitchen fell silent, save for the sounds of meat being munched to that ancient but universal music—guttural sounds of manly pleasure.

The primitive noises roused Frothy and Java from their postbreakfast napping. Like a pair of hungry raptors, the two circled Quinn’s legs, little pink tongues licking their cat lips, long, straight tails petitioning like furry raised flags.

“Mike, I’m afraid you’re going to need a lint roller for your pants.”

“What?” he asked, emerging from his bacon trance.

I pointed to the fur-covered fabric below his knees.

Far from annoyed, he reached down and stroked the lucky felines. “Should I share some of my bacon?”

“No, I’ll take care of them . . .”

After bribing my nervy pair of pusses into the living room with a rattling faux mouse and an indulgent trail of catnip, I returned to the kitchen table, sliced up a loaf of my maple and brown sugar pumpkin bread, and slathered a few pieces with Quinn’s favorite high-fat Irish butter.

My new fiancé closed his eyes as he sampled the fresh-baked slice. “Better than catnip,” he garbled around his stuffed mouth.

“I iced three more loaves for your squad,” I said. “And a fourth loaf for Sully—I know you visit him every day in the hospital. I’m sure Fran and the kids will enjoy the bread, too.”

“I know they will, sweetheart. That’s incredibly thoughtful.”

“I made one final loaf. But I’m taking it to another hospital.”

“What?” Quinn stopped chewing. “What hospital? What’s going on?”

“That’s what we need to talk about . . .”