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organ music spilled out. "Hear that? It's the doxology. When we get in there I am going to give thanks. Because whether you can accept it yet or not, you're struggling against the tide. Come to me, Cammie," he whispered, "and rest your soul upon the peaceful shore."
    The sun wreathed the back of his head in a halo of light. Her eyes locking with his, Cammie couldn't begin to sort out the conflicting emotions and sensations ricocheting between her head and her heart. Nor could she control the sensual awareness that had lain dormant for so long, but was now blossoming with unnerving speed.
    Glancing at Mom and Dad, who were smiling and signaling them to hurry, Cammie felt a wave of guilt, the certainty that they would be hurt and mortified by a romantic liaison between their adopted daughter and their son. They'd consider it illicit at best; a sin, perhaps.
    All these things hit her at once, and had the effect of an A-bomb being dropped inside her head and exploding down to her toes.
    She gulped in a steadying breath of air and tossed her head indifferently.
    "Lay my soul upon the peaceful shore?" she repeated on a laugh. "Really, Grant, you must have an inflated opinion of yourself. A sandy beach or an overused hot tub deck comes a lot closer, if you ask me."
    He regarded her shrewdly when she mentioned the hot tub, and Cammie wished she could take that part back. But then he laughed.
    "Leave it to you to keep me on the straight and narrow," he said, taking her arm and leading her to the entrance.
    "I know, I know," she muttered. "But that's okay, because I'm soft as butter inside."
    "Are you?" he whispered, his breath warm and fragrant, wisping seductively against her ear and raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
    Cammie drew in her breath, thankful the usher was prompt, but not so relieved when she saw it was a full house and he was leading them to a crowded pew.
    If there had been any way, she would have maneuvered herself between Mom and Dad, but unless she made an issue of it, she was stuck next to Grant. Stuck next to this man she was beginning to believe was more a stranger than an old and comfortable friend.
    Sharing a hymnal with him was sensual and emotional torture, his voice vibrant but a little off-key while his hand touched hers beneath the well-worn binding. As if that weren't enough, they were sandwiched in, so that Grant had to drape his arm behind her back, leaving her no choice but to stay locked by his side, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. For all their Sunday clothes, she was beginning to feel like Eve, naked and tempted by the forbidden fruit.
    The most difficult part of all was saved for last, when the good reverend asked everyone to join hands with those sitting next to them while he said a parting prayer—which turned out to be an unusually long one.
    Mom's hand was as warm and loving as ever on one side. But when Grant's fingers laced with hers on the other, Cammie couldn't deny that a current passed between them that transcended time and propriety and entrenched boundaries. She felt like the old skin of their friendship was being shed while something brilliant and new grew in its place.
    Then he moved his thumb, taking the hidden access to her sensitive and moist palm. He stroked it back and forth, tracing a slow, deliberate pattern, turning the simple act into the most heady and forbidden indulgence of the senses she'd ever experienced.
    He squeezed her hand, then repeated the strokes, and she realized he was sending her a message—a game they had played as children, one scratching out symbols while the other tried to decode the secret words.
    She felt the distinct strokes, long, then short...
    Her eyes opened and immediately locked with his as he repeated once more:
    I...
    Followed by a heart...
    And ending with the letter U.

 
     
     
    Chapter 3

     
    "Here, let me get that." Grant managed to lean into Cammie, brushing his chest against her bare arm as he snagged the jar of freshly preserved