“I’m sorry that happened,” I said gently.

“You weren’t a virgin before I had you so I reckon I’m not the only one sitting here with history like that.”

“I’ve never been in love,” I shared quietly.

“Avoid it,” he advised resolutely. “It sucks.”

And again . . .

There we were.

“I hate you feel that way,” I told him, still quiet. “My dad was a hard act to follow. Not the same way I’m guessing, but still, he was. Mom never recovered. She tried though, a lot, and she did it hard. So even though I’ve never felt anything like that, I get it in little ways, what you’re saying, watching her search for something that wasn’t to be had. Because sometimes I wished she’d avoid it so she could find another way to be happy.”

“You’ve changed,” he declared.

I felt my head give a slight twitch in surprise to his comment.

But I suspected he said it in order to change the subject.

“Yes, I ran up when you were in the stables and got out of my work stuff,” I confirmed.

“No,” he said firmly. “Yesterday, you were nervous and unsure of yourself, unless I had you in bed. Sweet, when you weren’t letting your nerves run away with you, which made you do stupid shit, but shy as fuck. Now, you’re not.”

“I’m in my space now,” I explained.

“It’s not that,” he returned.

“I’ve also already been a total idiot in a pretty bad way, so I broke the seal on that so you won’t be as surprised, or angry, if I do it again. Which I might, just saying. I can be confident when I’m serving up my famous guacamole because as you can tell,” I waved my wineglass at the bowl, “it’s confidence worthy. The rest of the evening, fair warning, anything could happen.”

He said nothing again.

“And camping, which I assume will be Saturday to Sunday, just be aware, with that much time, I could cause a mini-Johnny-Izzy Armageddon.”

His mouth twitched.

“But you’re good through the enchiladas because those also rock,” I assured.

“You got plans Wednesday?” he asked.

My heart jumped. “No.”

“My turn to dazzle you with my cooking.”

A slow smile spread on my face. “You’re on.”

He leaned toward the guac again and did it speaking. “Just to say, babe.” He loaded up a chip, sat back and looked me right in the eyes. “It’s appreciated, you being honest with me. You’re right. It’d be totally uncool you knew shit about me you didn’t share. So thanks for that.”

He then popped the chip in his mouth.

“You’re welcome, Johnny.”

He jerked his head to the bowl. “Am I gonna eat that all by myself?”

I grinned at him and shook my head, leaned toward the bowl and took my own chip, saying, “Nope.”

I sat back and shoved it in my mouth.

It was when I was washing it back with my first sip of wine when his hand settled on the side of my knee that was pressed to his thigh.

I felt the tingle and swallowed the cool wine.

“Now,” he murmured, and I looked at him. “You honestly gonna make me ask for a freaking kiss?”

He wanted a kiss.

“Nope,” I whispered, bent toward him, put my own hand on his thigh and my face close to his.

He slid his fingers into my hair as he wrapped his hand around the back of my head and pulled me closer.

I kissed him but he kissed me too.

Then he let me go, I sat back and we ate up all the guac and chips.

Later, after enchiladas, after Johnny declared my apple pie à la mode was better than my guac, after Johnny helped me clean up, after I let Johnny give the treats to the dogs, I led him upstairs and moved forward into my room where I’d guided him.

I stopped because I sensed he stopped.

Enchiladas went great, though Johnny agreed, as great as they were, the guac was better (this was before he had my pie).

And the half a plate of salad he served himself didn’t make his body slide into shock.

Also, things were relaxed, they were easy. We were getting to know each other, perhaps not sharing deeply, but I now had the info Deanna gave me confirmed that he had a brother, but I also knew he used to have a dog named Ranger. I further knew he was thirty-four years old and didn’t go to college. He went to mechanics school but knew most everything they taught him since he’d been working beside his dad (and before he died, his granddad too) at the garage since he could see over the fender of a car. And he was totally okay with Swirl and Dempsey going camping with us.

Through all that I didn’t make an idiot of myself.

But that time was nigh. I could feel it.

Because Johnny had made no bones about what we were doing after cleanup and dog treats, and he’d done this by looking at me and saying, “Now, Iz, where’s your bedroom?”

So now we were about to have sex.

So now I was nervous as a cat.

I looked back at him to see him staring up at the old-fashioned, droopy crystal chandelier I’d found at a garage sale and bought for a song because it was messed up. But I cleaned it up and now it was fabulous.

“Johnny?”

His chin tipped down and his eyes sought mine. “You have a chandelier in your bedroom?”

I grinned, the nerves beginning to glide away.

I also shrugged.

“Am I gonna walk outta your house tomorrow morning coated in glitter dust?” he asked.

My heart sang and the nerves took flight.

He was spending the night.

“I don’t think so,” I answered.

“Best get to fucking you before I turn into a unicorn or something,” he muttered.

I burst out laughing.

I stopped doing this when Johnny charged me with a purpose, this purpose ending in us both bouncing on my bed, him on top.

And then he got to fucking me.

I’d find he’d brought a string of five condoms.

But before I passed out naked in his arms in my bed, we’d used only three.

Still, it was good he came prepared.

“Iz.”

I turned from the sink and looked to Johnny.

He was standing in the kitchen doorway, his hair a mess, his jeans on, done up, belt not done up, shirt on, not buttoned up, feet bare, boots in his hand.

His eyes were drowsy and they were on my shoulder.

“You’re awake,” I said.

“Babe,” he replied.

“What?” I asked.

“What the fuck is on your shoulder?”

I looked down at the orange canary perched on my shoulder.

That canary sang.

I looked back at Johnny. “That’s Wesley.”

He stared at me.

I gestured to the yellow canary hopping on the countertop. “That’s Buttercup.”

“Jesus,” Johnny muttered.

“They keep me company while I make breakfast,” I told him, moving to the coffeemaker. “You want coffee?”

“Babe,” he said.

“What?” I asked, looking to him again to see his eyes aimed to the floor.

“What’s on your feet?”

I turned my attention to my feet then back to him.

“Wellies.”

“Why?” he queried.

“Why?” I repeated after him.

“Why do you got boots on with your pajama bottoms?”

“I had to go feed the horses and then let them out.”

His gaze slid down my fitted T-shirt to my pajama bottoms, which I had rolled at the waist, to my wellies and back up.