He’d overreacted. Big-time. And he had no idea why. He frowned as he watched Charlie smack the surface of the water with his palms, his squeals of delight carrying clearly. Michael wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself—a pointless exercise if ever there was one—and he figured he wasn’t about to start now. He had some idea why he’d wigged out. Last night, they had exchanged intimate confidences. He’d told her about his dream, about the fact that he’d been thinking about sex again. And she’d told him that she thought about sex, too. Mind, her confession had come first, which probably explained why he’d felt the urge to come clean about his dream. He gazed at the scuff mark on the toe of his sneaker as he remembered what she’d said. I miss sex… Not just the sticking tab A into slot B bit, but being naked with someone and trusting them enough to make stupid orgasm faces and noises and lying in bed afterward talking about nothing and everything… There had been a wistfulness, a wishfulness to her words that had hit him in the gut.
