Aching for Always by Gwyn Cready Page A

shoulders back. “Did she look like this?”
    â€œJesus.”
His mouth fell so far open, it looked like he was prepping for a root canal.
    â€œThat’s it,” she declared after he had come to and snapped. “And no transmissions.”
    â€œWell, maybe just the one. Small but, oh, so powerful.” He reached for the panties.
    Every touch reminded Joss how long she’d waited for this and how much she wanted it. “If we do this now,how can I be sure you’ll still be interested on our wedding night?”
    â€œMake it good.”
    A commotion rose on the other side of the door, and Joss immediately recognized the voice.
    â€œPeter!” Diane shouted. “Don’t open that without—”
    The door banged open. “Aunt Joss
is
still here. There’s her shirt.”
    â€œâ€”knocking.”
    Joss did a barrel roll and dove under the desk. Rogan, attempting both to protect Joss and cover himself, took a step and caught his pants-hobbled feet in the cord for the clock, which he managed to kick into the wall, where it exploded into a constellation of gears and wood. Then he spun in a circle and landed flat on his back, shirttails over his face, with a thud that rocked the room.
    Peter, unfazed, said, “I told you I left my saber here, Mommy. And look. I think Uncle Rogan needs a Band-Aid, too.”

C HAPTER T HREE
 
    One day, an old man came to the shop of the beautiful mapmaker. He did not try to court her. He was in love with a widow in the town. He had brought many baskets of gold with him so that he could convince the widow to marry him. The mapmaker told him love cannot be bought. She said he needed to make the widow love him for himself. If he couldn’t, money wouldn’t matter. The old man didn’t believe her. He told her he would hide his gold to keep it safe until he was ready for it, and he wanted her to make a map so that he would not forget where he’d hidden it.
    â€”The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker
    That was certainly a close one.
    Joss giggled.
But it all turned out in the end, just like it did for the heroines in fairy tales—well, slightly adult fairy tales.
She buttoned her collar higher and hurried through the brisk November night across the crosswalk at Grant and Seventh, feeling the joyous warmth of lasciviousness on her cheeks. Rogan hadn’t gotten what he wanted, nor even exactly what he needed, but she could rectify that tonight with something from her bag of tricks, and he had agreed—reluctantly—to wait until their wedding night for the rest.
    She needed to grab a bite before heading back for a slog through next year’s product plans. Rogan was off to dinner with the owner of another potential acquisition. She hoped whoever it was had taken a negotiation class.
    She had taken only a few steps south when she remembered the weather beacon. She was just about to turn back toward Seventh when a trail of sparks, like the final embers of fireworks, rained down over her head. Unlike fireworks, however, there was no heat or sizzle, and they were every color of the rainbow. When they hit the ground, they bounced like jacks, skittering over the sidewalk and street, scattering their tiny specks of luminescence.
    Craning her head in both directions, Joss looked to see if anyone else was seeing this, but none of the other evening commuters seemed to care or even notice. One spark hit her, and she jumped, but it didn’t hurt or burn. It sort of hummed, like a vibrating raindrop.
    This is weird.
She wondered if it was a chemical leak of some sort, but it was just so . . . pretty.
    The majority of the sparks seemed to be falling farther down Grant. Curious, she followed them, and as she passed a narrow alleyway that angled off the main street, hardly wide enough to hold a car, she saw the sparks were at least twice as thick there.
    She gazed down the two-block-long passageway. She’d never really paid it