... opening scene ...
Present Day, August 1, 2015
“Dwi’n caru ti,” he rasped in Welsh, rounding out his vowels and sharpening his Rs.
Uh-oh. Dylan Mostyn only slipped into his native language around Zoe when he was horny.
He entwined his fingers with hers, his gray stare fierce yet his touch gentle.
“Did you hear me, Chantilly?” he prodded, his voice low and gruff with his own brand of rustic charm and raw macho energy. “Dwi’n caru ti…I love you.”
Ah, heck, how was she supposed to resist him now?
Like a teenager about to get her first-ever kiss, she quivered, her knees knocking together.
Damn him for being so…so…so British. With his sexy accent and his Hugh Grant hair flop and Gerald Butler’s down and dirty swoon factor. And his dimples. Gah. If she wasn’t so weak-willed, she’d squeeze in one last wham-bam before heading back to the States.
Who was she kidding? A quickie wouldn’t sate her needs. Not anymore. What had Wales—what had Dylan—done to her? Love, a four-letter word she dreaded. In all her thirty-one years, she hadn’t truly loved anyone. Had she inadvertently fallen for him? Truly fallen for him? Like head-over-ass and giddy-in-love fallen for him?
“You can’t leave.” He edged her against the wall of the farm-style kitchen in the stone cottage, his chest pressing against hers. “Not yet.”
“Umm.” Between his hard body and a stone wall, Zoe dodged his lips by leaning to the left and pointing to the whistling kettle atop the gas stovetop. His masculine scent with subtle hints of amber and musk enveloped her and melted her a little more.
“Do you love me?”