Return to You

incredulously. She couldn't deal with him without any clothes
on. She felt vulnerable.
    Okay—and turned on. How could she not with
that smoldering way he looked at her? But it made her angry
too.
    He dipped his hand into the tub, his fingers
brushing her thigh. "The water seems cool. Want me to warm it?"
    She whacked his hand away. "You aren't
warming anything for me."
    "Where's your rubber ducky?"
    She frowned at the abrupt change in subject.
"I don't have a rubber ducky."
    "How come? You wanted one from the first day
you saw Ernie on Sesame Street taking a bath with his.
Remember?"
    "The only thing I remember is how you used to swear
to me that Snuffleupagus slept under your bed at night."
    He grinned boyishly. "I guess that would
have been logistically difficult."
    She stared at his face, memories of their
friendship warm in her mind, and her heart flopped.
    No—she couldn't do that again.
    But before she could order him to leave, he
scooped up some bubbles and dabbed them on her nose. "I need to get
to work. See you later."
    Olivia swatted the bubbles off her face as
he walked out. She even rubbed the spot dry with her towel, but she
could feel his touch all through her bath.
     
     

Chapter Twelve
     
     
    "I must be a glutton for punishment."
Michael waited for an affirmative from the universe. The quiet
acquiescence that answered him said it all.
    He stepped sideways down the hill to the
Frog Pond. He should have been overseeing the crew. Instead, he was
trekking across the countryside to see Olivia.
    He wasn't even sure she was at that pond.
Granny Mae had told him Olivia went for a picnic. He assumed that
it was still her favorite spot after all these years.
    Pembroke Farms had three different ponds,
like it had three gardens. Mae once told him there was magic in the
number three.
    He hadn't believed in magic in a long
time.
    Michael reached the top of the next rolling
hill and started down the crest. He and Olivia named the pond when
they were kids, for all the frogs they used to catch there. He
could almost hear echoes of their laughter reach him from the
past.
    There she was, sitting against a tree
reading, just like she used to when she was little. Only she wasn't
a little girl any more.
    And, god damn , she'd grown up
nicely.
    His tongue had just about fallen out of his
head when he opened the bathroom door and found her in the tub
wearing nothing but an iridescent layer of bubbles. Even now when
she was dressed in jeans and a tight sweater, his hands itched to
get a hold of her.
    She must have sensed his presence. She
looked up, setting her book down in her lap. He could see her
eyebrows draw together. He couldn't blame her—he wasn't sure why he
was here either.
    "Hey." He stopped when he reached the edge
of her blanket. He nodded toward her little basket. "Have a good
picnic?"
    She looked up at him, using her hand as a
shield from the sun. "Up till now."
    "Point taken. I'll just say what I came to
say and be on my way."
    "By all means." Her smile was as genuine as
the Rolex he'd bought off a man on the street the last time he was
in Manhattan.
    "I came to say sorry."
    Her brow furrowed. "What?"
    "I'm sorry for barging in on you this
morning. I didn't mean to disrupt your bath."
    "You didn't?"
    Her suspicious tone pissed him off. He raked
his hair back. "Of course I didn't. What do you think I am?"
    "I really don't know."
    She meant that—he could see it plain as
day.
    Once, Olivia had known him better than
anyone. Even better than he knew himself. It made him feel sad and
not a little lost.
    He took a step back. "If it's any
consolation, the sets should be done today, so there shouldn't be
too many more disruptions."
    The corner of her lips lifted sarcastically.
"Except for when you're filming, right?"
    He opened his mouth to answer but got
distracted by her lips. They were pink, devoid of lipstick, and so
luscious all he could think of was whether or not they still tasted
sweet, like when she was a teenager.
    The next thing he knew, he was kneeling on
the ground, holding her chin, kissing her.
    It was savage, bordering on violent. He
could taste his own frustration and anger, reluctance and helpless
need.
    She pushed him away from her. Rubbing the
back of her hand across her lips—to erase his kiss or to rub it in
so she'd feel it forever, he wasn't sure which. "Do that again and
I'll make you beg to join the ranks of the castrati," she said.

    He ran his hand through his hair. What was
she