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considered not answering at all, but Goat’s mouth tipped up at the corners and his hands came to rest on the small of her back, drawing her almost imperceptibly closer.
    “They, uh, require … reassurance,” she whispered.
    “Mmm?”
    “They are a little bit insecure.” Stella swallowed hard. “They need a firm hand. Someone to take ch-charge…”
    Damn, her teeth were actually chattering in her head. Like she was planted over a hole cut in a frozen pond and ice fishing, instead of standing in her own kitchen, hoping this breathtaking man would kiss her.
    You could kiss him first, an eager little voice suggested from somewhere deep in her mind. Ain’t any kind of law against that.
    But there was something extra-delicious about having the man you’ve dreamed of and lusted after for years hovering centimeters away, so that you could practically count his long fringy eyelashes, could feel the warmth of his skin through the charged air against yours. Something exquisitely delightful about the waiting. Stella wondered if she could be happy if time stopped right now, if she spent all of eternity suspended in the magical span of seconds before Goat’s wide sexy mouth descended on hers and stirred up her insides with one of his soul-searing kisses.
    She decided it wasn’t a bad idea.
    Except for the alpaca odor.
    “If … if you’ll excuse me,” she said breathily, “I think I’ll take a very very fast little shower. I need to, um, freshen up.”
    “I’ll be waiting,” Goat rumbled in reply before reluctantly releasing her.
    Stella hightailed it to her bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. She dialed it extra hot, then changed her mind when she realized her body was already blazing, having got itself convinced it was headed for eight kinds of paradise. She stripped off her dirty clothes and got in, lowering the temperature to lukewarm and directing the spray carefully away from her hair—no time for a blow-dry now—and lathered up with her favorite Avon Naturals Cucumber Melon shower gel.
    When she was finished with her shower, Stella patted herself all over with a clean towel and smoothed on body lotion. She paused, wondering if she should slip into her one slinky nightgown, a gift she bought herself on her birthday this year when she decided to try to get laid before she turned fifty-one. Instead she slipped on a clean pair of pajama pants—pale green, with a coordinated floral-print T-shirt. After a few seconds of deliberation, she skipped the matching slippers.
    Going barefoot might send a message.
    The sort of message she very much wanted to send.
    Stella waited for a moment so her recklessness could sink all the way in, and then she padded out to the kitchen, putting a little shimmy in her step.
    The kitchen was empty.
    Goat was not in any of the chairs. Goat was not leaning rakishly up against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrow lifted. Goat was not getting a beer from the fridge and giving her a devilish grin over his shoulder.
    Goat, Stella discovered after a few moments of searching, was stretched out on the sofa, long legs crossed at the ankles, eyes closed, chest rising and falling gently with the rhythm of deep sleep.
    For a moment, Stella just watched him, reflecting that a man who could fall asleep in your living room after a long evening of socializing and pie eating and kitchen cleaning was a man who was plenty comfortable with you.
    Which was good. Oh, it was very good. Even when you might have been hoping for a different sort of conclusion to the evening.
    Goat stirred in his sleep, and Stella had the fleeting suspicion that he could sense her hungry gaze on him, and she blinked rapidly a few times to make sure that it didn’t look like she’d been letting herself check out every lanky, muscular inch of him, maybe letting her tired eyes rest a little extra long around his midsection, where crisp cotton khaki covered up features that had been the subject of her frequent