After a small pause, she states simply, “I’ll allow it.”

Standing up, I head over to the mirror just above the dresser and grab my hairbrush. Just to be a smartass I muster up my best imitation of a sultry southern accent and begin. “Demi Stevens, the poor lonely widow, was embarking on a journey across states. Her destination was far from glamorous, but she had no choice. She had made a promise to her husband before he passed. And she’d keep that promise.”

“I really like your narration voice,” she jeers sarcastically. “Keep going.”

“When Connor Stevens exited the prison gates and laid eyes on Demi, his deceased cousin’s wife, he had to work hard to hide his attraction to her. There aren’t many women that can pull off windblown hair and sweat-soaked, wrinkled clothing, but Demi could.”

“What does he look like?” Wendy asks, her kids yelping and hollering in the background. I imagine she’s contemplating locking herself in the bathroom or closet, desperate to hear me over the noise being made by her loud clan.

Brushing my hair, I continue. “Connor was a large man with bulging biceps and tattoos everywhere. Heat immediately blanketed Demi’s skin as she drank him in. It only took minutes before the two were hot and sweaty . . .” I let the last word drag, for dramatic effect, “in Demi’s car. The ride to the hotel was a hot one as the air conditioning in the car was broken, and Arizona heat is unforgiving.”

“Mary-Anne, stop picking your nose!” Wendy shouts.

“As they reached the door to Demi’s room, she asked, ‘How about dinner?’ To which Connor replied, ‘Sounds good.’”

“There. You happy now?” I snip.

“Yeah. Riveted,” Wendy says, dryly. “You’re mean for the hot and sweaty part.”

“What did you think would happen?” I ask, laughing. “We’d meet, and I’d bang my husband’s cousin in my car outside the prison?”

“No,” she argues, the word dragging slightly, as if she thought exactly that. “But it would have been a cool story.”

“He’s Blake’s cousin, Wendy,” I point out.

“So,” she replies.

“And he just got out of prison for murder,” I add.

“Manslaughter,” she counters. “Which means it was kind of justified murder.”

“That is not what it means,” I laugh.

“Well, what does it mean?” she sasses.

I toss my brush on the dresser and start rummaging through my purse in search of gum. “It means he murdered someone and most likely got a lesser charge because the prosecutor mishandled evidence or something.”

“You don’t know that, Demi,” she murmurs. “Maybe it was justified.”

“And you don’t know that it was.”

“I can’t believe Blake never told you what happened.”

Blake didn’t want to touch the subject of Connor’s conviction—at least not with me anyway. He said it was complicated, whatever that meant. Complicated does not mean justified.

“Are you so desperate to see me with someone you think I should not only hook up with my late husband’s cousin, but that I should overlook said cousin is a violent felon as well?”

“I don’t know,” she whines. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Can we drop this for now, please?” The day has been long, and I’m tired and hungry. I have no desire for a lecture from Wendy about how it’s okay for me to move on and live my life.

“Yes,” she sighs with an air of defeat. “Thanks for the story.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I gotta go. Grayson must’ve gotten in our bathroom closet again, and he’s wearing my diaphragm like a bowler hat,” Wendy groans in frustration.

“That’s . . . so gross.” I’m glad we’re on the phone so she can’t see me cringe.

“I never use it . . . hence why I have an army of children over here,” she defends.

“I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”

“Fine. Enjoy dinner with Connor.”

“Yeah, yeah. Night.” I hang up and laugh to myself. My best friend is a nut.

Pulling my duffel bag out and tossing it on the bed, I unzip it and realize I forgot to give Connor the clothes I brought him. This was all part of Blake’s plan, too.

Taking the jeans, boxer shorts, and shirts—all still with tags and wrapped in their packaging—I rush over to Connor’s room hoping to catch him before he gets in the shower. I knock softly and wait. Without warning or hearing any movement from inside, the door flies open scaring me to death.

“Sorry,” he laughs when he sees me jump.

“I . . . uh . . .”

Skin covered in tattoos and a towel.

That’s all I see.

He’s only wearing a towel.

He looks really good in a towel.

Why is the towel so small?

Or is he really that big?

My eyes dart to the floor even though they’re begging to stare at him, but not before I let them drag slowly over the tattoos that cover his hard chest and midsection. His build is that of a matured man, not the cut and chiseled look of a man in his twenties. No, Connor is that special breed of male that has filled out yet remained hard; there’s not an ounce of fat on him. The corners of his eyes have a slight crease when he smiles and there’s the faintest of laugh lines next to his dimples. For a man in his mid-thirties who has been in prison for many years, he looks incredible. I cringe at that thought. I’m checking him out. But how could I? This is my deceased husband’s cousin. I cannot check him out. That’s just wrong on so many levels.

“I brought these for you. I think they’ll fit.” I thrust the items in my hands toward him, still staring at his bare feet.

God, he has big feet.

Shit.

They’re really big.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Demi.

“Oh. Thanks.” He takes them, and I turn to go, my eyes still glued to the floor.

“Demi,” he calls my name, and I turn, and let my gaze move up, running over him against my will. The side of his mouth quirks ever so slightly, almost as if he noticed my perusal before it disappears.

I can feel the heat in my face and know my cheeks must be red.

He just busted me checking him out.

“I really do appreciate all of this.” With that he turns and just before his door shuts, unbeknownst to me still watching him, he jerks the towel from around his waist, and I get a shot of his ass. Yep. I just saw my incredibly hot cousin-in-laws ass.

There’s a small restaurant within walking distance of our hotel, so we head out, leaving the moving oven that is my car parked. Once we’re in the restaurant, we’re seated promptly.

“What can I get you?” A curvy redhead smacking gum obnoxiously asks as she grins at Connor. I can’t help the thoughts that enter my mind as Connor smiles back at her, a look of interest in his gaze. Has it really been eight years since he’s been with a woman? Wow. I’ve managed two years—well, more if you count the time Blake was sick—of abstinence, and that’s starting to weigh heavily on me.

“Four shots of Tequila and a Corona,” Connor orders.

“And for your wife,” the waitress darts her gaze to me. I fight the urge to raise my brows at her obviously fishing question. She wants to know if he’s taken.

“Oh, we’re not married,” I quickly correct her and immediately regret it. What does it matter if she thinks we’re married or not?

“She’s my sister,” Connor adds as he winks at her, and I shift in my seat as their eyes lock. Okay. I guess it does matter.

“Oh . . . well. Lucky sister,” she sighs. I can’t fight furrowing my brows and twisting my mouth. Does she realize how dumb that sounded?

“I’ll have a glass of water and a Miller Lite,” I interrupt and grab my purse. “I think I’ll head to the restroom. Be right back.” I fly out of my chair and dart to the back of the building. It’s been a long time since I’ve flirted or been hit on, but I remember what it looks like. It’s not hard to see Connor is looking for some action, and I’d rather not be there to witness it.