The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

without you."
    "And you're not ever going to find out," he promised, then remembered the ring and what he needed to tell her. "The sappy commercials?"
    "Yes."
    "The one I saw said this is what you give a woman to tell her you'd marry her all over again. I'd do it in a heartbeat."
    And then he slipped the ring on her finger and dried her tears and carried her upstairs to their bed.

    The End

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    Edge Of Heaven
    The McRae Series
    Book Two



Excerpt from

    Edge of Heaven
    The McRae Series
    Book Two

    by

    Teresa Hill
    USA Today Bestselling Author

Emma finally came back downstairs, and Rye frowned at the cloud of tempting fragrances that seemed to hover around her.
    He'd been trying really hard to ignore those odd moments on the porch when she'd clung to him, then eased up on her tiptoes to thank him so sweetly. Damned if the muscles in his abdomen didn't go all tight, either at the memory or the sight of her or that smell. It settled deep in his lungs, warm and languid, making him hungry in ways he didn't want to think about.
    "Hi." She smiled shyly and drifted a bit closer, the smell coming along with her.
    Vanilla, he decided a moment later. She smelled like vanilla. It made him think of warm cream dribbled over something sweet and sinful.
    Emma and warm, smooth vanilla cream.
    If the smell of her wasn't dangerous enough, the sight of her was even harder to take. Her skin was still flushed from the heat and slightly damp in places, as if she'd toweled off in a hurry. Her hair was piled carelessly on her head and the pieces of it that had escaped were damp, too. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could see that she'd taken pains to cover that bruise again. But it was worse today than it had been yesterday.
    Beneath all that, she looked all fresh faced and innocent and young. She was feeling shaky enough, as is, and he didn't mess around with nice women like her, not anymore.
    "Something smells good," she said, coming closer, bringing that vanilla scent with her.
    Rye bit back a reply, something that would likely have come out as, Something certainly does .
    "Hungry?" he said instead, too late realizing that probably wasn't the best conversation opener, either.
    "Yes." She came right up beside him, damp and warm, and she might as well have doused herself in vanilla cream. Not that the scent was overwhelming. Just that it smelled so good he wanted to take a bite out of her.
    Dessert, he thought. Emma.
    "Let's eat," he said.
    "Okay." She turned to the cabinets. Opening one, she raised up on her toes to reach the top shelf, giving him a perfect view of her tempting backside encased in a pair of jeans that fit like a glove and hugged every enticing curve.
    He practically growled, "How old are you?"
    "How old do you think I am?" She eased down off her toes, two plates in hand, seeming to take delight in throwing it right back at him.
    But at least she was smiling. He liked seeing Emma smile. Trying not to growl at her or take a bite of her, he said, "Twenty-three? Maybe twenty-five?"
    Please, let her be twenty-five.
    "Close enough," she said.
    "Emma?" He took a plate from her and filled one for her, cheese crepes topped with a sauce he'd made using some of her aunt's blackberry jam and some whipped cream.
    "It's just a number, right?" she said, taking her plate and smiling mischievously.
    "No, it's not just a number."
    Not when he was thinking he might be ten years older than she was, maybe even more. Not that he was going to let anything happen between them. Still...
    "I'm starving," Emma said. "Can we eat?"
    He frowned. "You didn't tell me how old you are."
    "Old enough," she claimed, seating herself on one side of the breakfast bar and waiting for him to do the same.
    He made a plate for himself, sat down across from her, a good bit of pretty granite countertop stretching between them, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. But it meant he got a front-row seat as every spoonful went into her delectable-looking mouth.
    And he was supposed to be figuring out how old she was, dammit.
    He had a nagging sense that he wasn't going to like her answer, once he got one out of her. But honestly, how young could she possibly be? She'd said she was finishing college. So she had to be twenty-one or twenty-two.
    Twenty-one?
    He frowned.
    Twenty-one-year-olds were practically infants, weren't they? Didn't they still giggle and flirt shamelessly and guzzle beer at