Ewan couldn't remember the last time he felt this rested. On the rare occasions he did, it almost always had something to do with the woman sitting a few feet away from him.
Athena.
She had that effect—like peace wrapped in chaos, calm that always came with a pulse that made him restless in the best and worst ways.
He had chosen the distance between them deliberately, not because he wanted it. If it were up to his mind—or the part of him that wasn't ruled by restraint—he would have grabbed her the moment she stepped into the cottage earlier, looking like a goddess draped in red silk and soft perfume.
He would have kissed her senseless, pressed his lips down her neck, tasted her skin until she trembled the way she used to, until memory became flesh again. He would have worshipped her, right from her feet to her legs, and maybe beyond. But he didn't. Because of the cloud that hung above them. Because she was engaged.
