Ann Mathewson

“He was fully anticipating her lips being bright red to go with her toenail polish. Damn, he loved red lipstick.

But before he could get to those lips, she used them, to say, “Oh, dammit, it’s you.”

Owen’s gaze bypassed her mouth to fly to her eyes.
Because he’d know that voice anywhere.

Madison Allain was home.

A day early.

Not that an extra day would have helped him prepare. He’d been thinking about her visit for a week and was still as wound tight about it as he’d been when Sawyer had told him that she was coming home. For a month.

Owen stood just watching her, fighting back all of the first words that he was tempted to say.

Like, “Damn, you’re even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.”

Or, “I haven’t put anyone in the hospital lately.”

Or, “I’ve missed you so damned much.”

Just for instance.

He wiped his hands on his jeans. Okay, he was supposed to be nice to her. That meant treating her like she was one of the tourists who frequented this dock. Polite. Friendly,

But not I’ve-known-you-my-whole-life-and-kissed-you-a-whole-bunch friendly. Just mildly hey-how’s-it-goin’ friendly.

Nice. Polite. A little friendly—but not too much. He could do that. Though it probably meant not saying things like, “I still remember how your nipples taste.”
― Erin Nicholas, Sweet Home Louisiana