all over, tingling and buzzing and dizzy with want of her.
His hand moved to cup the back of her head. His fingers dove into the hair behind her ears, the silky strands threading between his fingers. Her feminine smell invaded his senses in the most wonderful way.
Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck, and she settled into his arms, into his chest . . .
Into his heart.
The tender thought made his breath catch. They were combustible together, was the problem—if one could consider that a problem. And yes, moving too fast would be a mistake. He wanted to be careful with Grace. She deserved that.
A little restraint was a good thing. He couldn’t quite make himself believe it just now. Especially when she made that little mewling sound. Sweet heaven.
He gentled his hold. Slowed his pace. Managed—with the discipline of a saint—to dial it back a notch. He took small delicious nibbles, letting his mouth wander to the corners of her lips, each side. Then to her cheek, her jaw, the fragrant curve of her neck. She tilted her head to the side, the curtain of her hair falling aside as she made room for him.
He glided his nose back up her neck—that smell. He was already addicted. He straightened, brushing her nose with his, letting his heart settle in the silence. He gradually became aware of the gentle rocking of the boat, the whisper of the breeze, the distant ping of hardware on a flagpole.
Her fingers moved at the back of his neck, stirring every cell to life. “To be honest, I thought maybe last time was a fluke.”
Her ragged voice made him want to make her breathless again. “Me too.”
“It’s all your fault,” she said lightly.
“Mine? It’s totally yours.”
She held his gaze in the dark for a long moment. “What are we going to do?”
His lips inched upward. “More of that, I hope.”
When their mouths met again, she was smiling against his lips.
Chapter Thirty
Saturday morning Grace was so distracted by thoughts of her date she’d completely forgotten that a prospective buyer was coming. She grabbed a stack of fresh towels from the cleaning cart when she heard Molly leading them up the stairs. Grace was glad she’d just finished cleaning the last vacated room.
“The Bluebell Inn has the distinction of being the town’s very first inn,” Molly said. “It was built in 1905 and featured ten bedrooms. Early on it was even a stagecoach stop. And starting in 1957, it housed the post office. We actually uncovered the old mail slot when we were renovating and found an old love letter—there’s a long story there, but I’ll spare you.
“The inn’s been several things over the years, including a saloon, if you can believe it. In the sixties—the lake’s real heyday—other hotels opened, but the Bluebell Inn remained the place to stay.
“In 1978 it was bought by Governor Jennings and turned into his family lake home. Then my parents purchased it, and my siblings and I had the pleasure of growing up here. Our parents dreamed of turning it back into an inn during their retirement. But sadly, that wasn’t to be. They passed away unexpectedly four years ago. But my siblings and I took it upon ourselves to fulfill their dream.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” a woman said.
“That’s some mission you took on,” a man said. “This place has quite the history.”
“That’s only the tip of the iceberg, I assure you.”
They reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner, and Grace smiled as the attractive middle-aged couple came into view.
“This is my sister, Grace,” Molly said. “Grace, these are the Wellingtons—they’re from Charlotte.”
They exchanged greetings and made small talk for a moment, then Molly led them past the cart and continued the tour.
Grace put the towels in the room, closed the door, and pushed the cart up the hall toward the supply closet.
“This is our suite.” Molly’s voice carried down the hall as she unlocked the door and ushered them inside. “All of our rooms feature an en suite bathroom, but as you can see, the suite also features a sitting area, fireplace, and a generously sized walk-in shower. This room functions nicely as a honeymoon suite—we have a lot of destination weddings here in Bluebell.”
“It’s quite charming,” Mrs. Wellington said. “I love the décor.”
“This particular room was updated two years ago when we had a small flood.”
Grace aimed a frown at the end of the hall even though her sister couldn’t see