Staring at the ceiling later that night, Margaret couldn’t fall asleep, wondering who in the world would have broken into her cottage and why they would have stolen a box of personal mementos. It didn’t make any sense at all. Her jewelry box was left untouched, but a box containing old photos and yearbooks was stolen? Those things didn’t mean anything to anyone except her. They certainly couldn’t be sold for any substantial profit.
Suddenly it occurred to her that the FedEx delivery Franklin had given her this morning had been on top of the box too. She groaned. Now she’d have to call her contact, José, at Cava San Luis, and ask him to send a new contract. He wouldn’t be pleased after taking the time to have the first contract hand-delivered on a Saturday, and Margaret wouldn’t look like a very responsible businesswoman.
She reached for her phone and had started writing herself a reminder to call José tomorrow when the phone buzzed in her hands. She closed the note and opened her texts.
Cameron Winslow: Are you awake?
A smile pulled at her lips as her heart fluttered with anticipation.
M. Story: Yes.
Cameron Winslow: I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about today.
M. Story: Which part?
Cameron Winslow: The break-in bothers me. The thought of something happening to you is . . . unacceptable.
Margaret settled back against her pillow and sighed happily despite the fact that they were talking about her cottage being broken into and her property being damaged. He cared about her, and she loved it.
M. Story: I’m fine. It was probably just some stupid kids, or someone who drank too much next door. You don’t have to worry about me.
Cameron Winslow: Too late.
M. Story: There were other parts of today that were more . . .
Her fingers paused as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth.
Cameron Winslow: Pleasant?
M. Story:? My thoughts exactly.
Cameron Winslow: That kiss at Harrell. Christ, Meggie, where’d you learn to kiss like that?
M. Story: Where did you?
Cameron Winslow: Bree Ambler.
Margaret’s eyes narrowed with jealousy at the thought of Bree Ambler touching Cameron. She didn’t care that they’d probably been teenagers when it happened. It still made her bristle . . . and recall a certain summer when she and Bree’s brother Dash had spent a little time together as well.
M. Story: Dash Ambler.
Cameron Winslow: Shit! Why did you tell me that? I could have happily lived my life without picturing you and Dash getting it on. Great. Now I’m going to have to kill a childhood friend in cold blood.
M. Story: Well, picturing you and Bree makes me superhappy too. So I guess we’re even.
Cameron Winslow: The Amblers were pretty racy.
She giggled, nodding her head.
M. Story: And the Rousseaus were sophisticated.
Cameron Winslow: And the Englishes were Boy Scouts.
M. Story: And the Winslows were wild.
Cameron Winslow: This Winslow’s wild . . . for a Story girl.
Her heart fluttered as she touched his words with the pad of her index finger.
M. Story: The Storys were . . .
Cameron Winslow: Proper. (Except Priscilla.)
Proper. Margaret sighed. She knew this, of course, but she didn’t necessarily like it. She didn’t want to be prim and proper Margaret Story. She wanted to be the girl Cameron saw when he looked at her—the woman he kissed like the world was ending. Seduction wasn’t necessarily in her toolbox, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn how to put it there.
Cameron Winslow: Meggie? You still there?
M. Story: Tell me a dirty fantasy. One that you’ve had about me.
***
Cameron stared at his phone, his eyes widening in surprise, and his heart sped up as every filthy fantasy he’d ever had about Margaret Story crammed with lightning speed into his consciousness. Was she serious? His erection was thickening under the sheets, and Cameron slid one hand down his naked body to cover it with his palm, feeling it twitch and throb under his fingers.
Fuck. He needed both hands to type, so he flipped over onto his stomach and rubbed himself against the sheets.
Cameron Winslow: I’m sorry. My brain just short-circuited from a lack of oxygen. The blood all went somewhere else. Can you repeat the question, please?
M. Story: LOL. Tell me a dirty dream that you’ve had about me.
Cameron Winslow: A fantasy or a dream?
M. Story: Either one.
Cameron Winslow: How dirty? Slightly smutty or offensively filthy?
M. Story: What’s in the middle?
Cameron Winslow: Down and dirty.
M. Story: Let’s start there.
“Fuck,” whispered Cameron, thrusting his hips slowly against the mattress so that the base of his cock felt the full pressure of his body weight. He groaned softly as he gripped the phone.
Cameron Winslow: Seriously?
M. Story: Seriously.
Cameron Winslow: Will you erase these messages after I tell you?
M. Story: No promises.
Cameron Winslow: You’ll keep it? Fuck, that’s even hotter.
M. Story: I might require them for later reference.
He groaned again, flexing his hips and rolling them so that his erection strained, hot and pulsing, between his stomach and the mattress.
Cameron Winslow: You’re blowing my mind.
M. Story: Just your mind?
Cameron Winslow: Where’s buttoned-up Meggie, the little librarian?