The planner she’d found under some of Jack’s papers sat in front of her, open to the list she’d scribbled in the back. Her secret list that made it into every planner each new year. A list of the things she wanted to undertake by the time she was forty. Her accomplishments to date were dismal. She’d never learned sign language. She didn’t have two children. She’d never seen the Grand Canyon. Or run a marathon. Or visited the Louvre. She’d also never had sex on a beach. Why the hell had she put that on there anyway? Gritty sand in hard-to-reach places, sunburn on tender places and seaweed in her hair? Couldn’t be good, could it? Tyson’s image popped into her mind. Tyson bare-chested on the beach, sand clinging to his sun-kissed shoulders. Mmm. How in the name of all that was holy was she going to see that man every day and not get tangled up in him? Even knowing that a man as capable and self-reliant as Tyson could seriously undermine her need to control her life and her sense of responsibility for everyone, didn’t stop this wanting.
