Night Jasmine by Erica Spindler

stroked the soft, silky curls at his nape. He was losing those baby curls already. His big-boy hair was coming in more like hers, thick, straight and heavy.
    Bending down, she pressed a light kiss on his temple. He stirred and whimpered. She’d meant what she’d said to Hunter—she loved Oliver more than anything. She would go through hell and beyond for him.
    How could she regret having met Hunter?
    Aimee drew the quilt over Oliver, tucking it snugly around him, thinking of the way Hunter had gone blank after she’d spoken of her love for Oliver. As if he’d retreated to a place where neither she nor anybody else could touch him.
    She’d recognized the expression. When they’d been together, every so often he would zone out. And afterward he had always been quieter, more remote, than usual.
    She’d always suspected he’d been thinking of his wife and son and had tried to coax him into talking to her. Into sharing his thoughts and feelings. He never had. That he’d never been able to talk to her, to share his pain, had hurt her deeply.
    She shook her head. But then, that had always been the problem between them. She’d shared everything, given everything. And he’d been willing to give her nothing—of himself, of his heart.
    Tears filled her eyes and she blinked against them. Well, she wouldn’t share Oliver. And she wouldn’t worry about Hunter’s problems. His needs. She had her own to deal with.
    Taking one last look at her son, Aimee headed to her own bedroom. She stepped out of her shorts and T-shirt and into a light cotton nightgown. As if drawn by a force beyond her control, her gaze strayed to the window. She gazed at the dark rectangle a moment, then unable to stop herself, crossed to it and looked out. She sucked in a sharp breath—Hunter still stood in the doorway.
    Aimee stared at him, her mouth dry, her heart fast. The urge to slip out of the house and go to him moved over her, so strong she shook with the effort of holding back.
    A fool. She was a fool. He didn’t want her. He’d made that plain, back then and now. Curling her fingers into her palms, Aimee turned resolutely away from the window. She wouldn’t give in to her feelings, she vowed, crossing to her cold bed. Not this time, no matter the price.
    * * *
    â€œGood morning.”
    Aimee looked up from the toast she was buttering. Hunter stood in the doorway, his hair damp from his shower, his eyes still heavy lidded and sexy with sleep. He rubbed his knuckles across his jaw, smooth from his morning shave, and she caught herself following the movement of his hand and swore silently. She’d always liked
watching him shave. For her, there had been something erotic about the totally masculine act.
    She met his gaze then and he smiled, the curving of his lips slow and supremely male. She gritted her teeth. She would not allow herself to be affected by him. She simply would not.
    â€œMorning,” she said, knowing she sounded ungracious but not giving a damn.
    â€œSleep well?”
    â€œFine,” she lied. She’d tossed and turned, her head filled with Hunter, the past and present colliding in her dreams. When, just after first light, she’d dragged herself out of bed, she’d half expected to look out the window and find him still standing in his doorway.
    Of course, he hadn’t been.
    â€œAm I too early?” he asked, shooting her another cocky smile.
    Aimee resumed buttering the toast, annoyed. He knew he wasn’t. Oliver sat in his booster chair, stuffing grapes in his mouth as fast as he could, Roubin sat at the table with the fisherman’s almanac and a big earthenware mug of coffee.
    â€œOf course not,” she muttered. “Coffee’s on the stove, cups are in the cabinet beside the refrigerator.”
    â€œThanks.” He sauntered into the kitchen, heading for the coffeepot.
    Oliver eyed Hunter warily as he poured his