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“That I’m their business.” I smooth a wrinkle out of his T-shirt that isn’t there. “I’m everybody’s florist. I’ve never been anybody’s business.”

He puts his hand on my jaw and tips my face up.

“You are now,” he says.

Ah. Melt.

With a feral grin, I grab him by the shirt and kiss him.

He groans against my mouth and walks me backward until my hips hit the counter. Then he picks me up and sets me on it, and the plate goes skidding into the sink. His hands are in my hair. My knees are around his hips. He kisses me like he’s been waiting since the post office.

“So,” I say, when I get my breath back. “All of me. I’m just asking. Have you inventoried it?”

He takes my left hand and turns it over. He kisses the inside of my wrist, right on the dandelion.

“That’s one,” he says.

He kisses the corner of my jaw. “Two.”

Then the spot under my ear that makes my toes curl. “Three.”

“Oh, my, that’s hot,” I breathe, and grab the edge of the counter.

He lifts his head, mouth tipped up at one corner.

“You’re actually counting.”

He replies, “I’m thorough.”

“At this rate we’ll be here till Christmas.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” he says, and goes back to my neck.

“Well, I am,” I tell him, and I slide off the counter, hook two fingers in his belt and walk him back to my grandmother’s bedroom.

Chapter Seventeen

She doesn’t let go of my belt until the backs of my knees hit the bed.

The lamp on the dresser has a fringed shade, and it throws gold on one half of her face. She’s breathing hard. So am I.

“Four,” I say.

“What?”

I take her hand off my belt and kiss her knuckles. “Four.”

“You don’t have to keep counting.”

“You asked if I’d inventoried it. I haven’t. I’m doing it now.”

“Well,” she says. “Okay. But you have to keep up.”

“I’m a Ranger. I can count and do two things at once.”

I pull her sweater over her head. She lifts her arms for it and doesn’t cross them after. She’s in a white bra with a little bow in the middle, and her hair is falling out of its clip. Half a day of flower shop on her. Green on her fingers. A scratch on her forearm from a rose.

“Five,” I say, and kiss the scratch.