He wasn’t going to press, push, or fight for her. Shock. Ford never pressed, pushed or fought. Things either came right to him, like moths to a flame, or they didn’t.

Not being a moth, Tara was on her own to do as she pleased. She just wasn’t exactly sure what would please her.

Okay, big fat lie. She knew what would please her, and that was one Ford Walker, served straight up. But hell if she’d go through that again…

A week after their not-so-awkward morning after, Tara headed out at the crack of dawn to return his crepe pan, which she’d used and loved. She needed to buy herself one the next time she had a couple hundred bucks lying around.

It took ten minutes to drive to his house, ten minutes she told herself she didn’t have to spare. She should have given him the pan back at the marina. That would have been the logical and reasonable thing to do. Except as it applied to Ford, Tara didn’t have a logical or reasonable bone in her body.

At least his house was easy enough to get to. He lived on the bluffs above the inn. As the sun rose over the mountains, casting a pink glow over the morning, she parked and headed up his walk. A small part of her secretly hoped she caught him in bed. But that really was a very small part.

The bigger part hoped he was in the shower.

She looked around and realized that she didn’t see his car, which pretty much rained on the waking-him-up parade. Wondering where he was-or who he might be with so early-put a hitch in her step.

None of your business, she told herself. None. She blew out a breath, opened her cell phone, and called him.

“Hey,” he said in his usual sex-on-a-stick voice. “Miss me?”

She ignored both that and the floaty feeling the sound of his voice put in her stomach. “I’m returning your pan,” she said. “I’m on your porch.” She paused, hoping he’d tell her where he was.

“Let yourself in,” he said and gave her the code to unlock the door.

“Where should I leave it, in your kitchen?”

“Or on my bed,” he said.

“You want the Le Creuset on your bed,” she repeated, heavy on the disbelief.

“No, I want you on my bed. What are you wearing?”

She pulled the cell away from her ear and stared at it. “You did not just ask me that.”

“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll just picture you how I want you.”

“And how would that be?” The words popped out of her before she could stop them, fascinated in spite of herself.

“Hmm,” he mused silkily. “Maybe a French maid outfit.”

“That’s…” She struggled a minute with why the thought turned her on. “Outdated and anti-feminist,” she finally said, a little weakly. “Not to mention subservient.”

“I like the subservient part,” Ford mused. “A few ‘yes sirs’ would be nice.”

“You are one seriously warped man.”

“No doubt.” His voice was low and sexy, and it made her forget herself, made her forget that all he wanted was her body. Especially since at the moment, she wanted his.

“I can be there in twenty minutes,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“No. Don’t even think about it.” Tara ignored the flutter in her belly. She couldn’t help it. Even when he was being a Neanderthal, he still turned her on. Sure, she’d just been fantasizing about catching him in the shower, but that had been just a fantasy. She needed to live firmly in reality. “We’re done with that.”

“Bet I can change your mind.”

“I have no doubt,” Tara said. God, she needed help. “But you’re a nice guy, so you won’t.”

“I’m not that nice a guy.”

Great. Just great. “You’ve been an absent guy.”

He was quiet a moment. “Didn’t see a need to complicate anything for you.”

Like a reunion with Logan. Tara drew in a deep breath. “You ever think that sometimes complications are worth the trouble?”

“No.”

Quick and easy and brutally honest. It was Ford’s way. She’d have to think about that later. Right now, she punched in his front door code and listened to the lock click open. “Are you sure you don’t want me to just leave the pan on the step?” she asked. “It’d be safe.” In Lucky Harbor, just about everything was safe.

Except her heart, she was discovering.

“Are you afraid to step inside my lair?” Ford teased.

“Ha. And no. I’ll leave it on your table.”

“Ten-four.” He paused. “Are you going to snoop around while you’re in there?”

“No.” Maybe. “What would I snoop around in?”

“I don’t know. My underwear drawer?”

The last time she’d touched his underwear, he’d been wearing them. But just the thought of him in his BVDs brought a rush. “No,” she said quickly.

Too quickly, because he laughed softly. “You can if you want to,” he said, lowering his voice. “You can do whatever you want, Tara. Flip through my porn, eat the enchiladas I made last night from Carlos’s abuelo’s recipe…”

“Wait.” She promptly forgot about underwear, porn, and jumping his bones. “Carlos gave you his abuelo’s recipe? I’ve been asking him for it forever.”

“Yes, but do you take him out on the water every week and teach him to sail? Or teach him how to pick up girls so as to achieve maximum basage?”

“Basage?”

“You know, first base, second base-”

“Ohmigod,” she said. “You are such a guy!”

He was laughing now. “Guilty as charged.”

Tara sighed. “So it’s a boy’s club; is that what you’re saying?”

“Uh huh. And I’m glad to say that you do not have the right equipment to join.”

“I want that recipe, Ford.”

“Only men are allowed to have it. It’s been handed down that way for generations.”

“You’re making that up.”

He didn’t say anything, but she could practically hear him smiling. “Please?” she asked.

“Oh, how I like the sound of that word coming from your mouth.”

“Ford.”

“Right here, Tara.” He was still using his bedroom voice. Which, as she had good reason to know, made her one hundred percent stupid.

“What would you do to get the recipe?” he wanted to know.

She shook her head. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, but if you change your mind and want to play with my underwear, text me and I’ll be right there. You can play with the ones I’m wearing.”

She felt herself go damp and hurriedly disconnected. She wouldn’t be texting him. She wouldn’t let herself go there. Way too big a risk when it came to him, because he wouldn’t risk anything. Been there, done that.

She stepped into his big, masculine house, her heels clicking on his hardwood floor. He had a big couch and an even bigger flat screen. One wall was all windows looking out over the water. And, she realized, the marina.

Lucky Harbor Inn’s marina.

She wondered if he ever stood right here and looked for her. Reminding herself that she was on a mission to drop the pan off and get out, she refused to let herself look at anything else as she headed toward his kitchen.

Except her eyes strayed to the mantel in the living room on the way and at the pictures there. There was one of Jax, Sawyer, and Ford on Ford’s boat. Three hard-bodied gorgeous men, tanned and wet and mugging for the camera. She wondered who had taken the picture, and if the bikini top hanging from the mast behind them belonged to the photographer.

There was another picture of Ford with a group of guys all standing shoulder to shoulder, wearing USA track suits and holding their medals. The Olympic sailing team.

The last picture showed an older woman with two younger women, all of whom shared Ford’s wide, open, mischievous smile and bright green eyes.

His grandmother and sisters.

Tara walked through an archway, past the laundry room, and into a kitchen that gave her some serious appliance envy. And Corian countertop envy. And, oh Lord, look at his Japanese cutlery. Just standing here was going to give her an orgasm. She set the pan on the table, forced herself to turn around, and headed back under the archway. There was a basket of clean clothes on the dryer. Drawn in by the fresh scent, she stood in the center of the laundry room and inhaled deeply.

She was pathetic.

On the top of the basket of clothes lay a T-shirt. It said LUCKY HARBOR SAILING CHAMP across the front. At one time, it’d been gray, but years of washing had softened it to nearly white. She knew this because he’d been given two of them. Ford had gotten them that long-ago summer during his first sailing race when he’d been nothing but the dock boy on a local team.

She had the other shirt. He’d given it to her all those years ago, and she’d worn it to sleep in. She’d kept it as one of her few true treasures. Unfortunately, she’d been wearing it the night of the inn fire six months ago, and it’d been destroyed. Unable to stop herself, she ran her fingers over the shirt and whoops, look at that, picked it up. Well, hey, he’d invited her to play with his underwear, and a T-shirt could be classified as underwear. She pressed her face to the soft, faded cotton and felt her knees go a little weak even though it smelled like detergent and not the man.

She wanted the shirt.

Don’t do it…

But she did. She totally stole his shirt.

She drove back to the inn with it in her purse and walked straight to the marina, and then to the end of the dock.

She needed a minute.

She inhaled the wet, salty air. Sitting was a challenge in her pencil skirt and she had to kick off her heels, but once she managed, having the water lap at her feet and the sun on her face made it worth it. It meant unwanted freckles and almost dropping a Jimmy Choo knock-off into the water, but there was something about listening to the water slap up against the wood and watching the boats bob up and down on the swells that really did it for her.