A/N: I don't know what possessed me ... perhaps it's the approach of Valentine's Day, or the fact that I watched Something's Gotta Give again the other day. Lately Richobel (that's Dr. Richard Clarkson and Isobel Crawley of Downton Abbey) have my whole heart ... but they're not exactly a lighthearted pairing. I had forgotten how satisfying it is that one of my ships got a happy ending.

And so here we are. Harry and Erica a few years on from the end of SGG. Parts of this are old and others newer. I'm working off the premise that in the final scene ("Sanborn ... four ... and a half") Erica's wearing a wedding band. Cannot tell you how happy it makes my shippy heart to think of the domestication of Harry Sanborn! This is fluffy and flirty and was a fun little departure for me. But fear not ... if you're one of my Richobel readers who has ventured over here, I'm still working on Worthy and True with the potential for another story before the next chapter.

Unbeta'ed. I've learned a great deal from my Richobel beta and hopefully it's evident here, but if there are errors they are 100% mine.

Please take a moment to leave me a review if you read. I treasure your feedback!

xx,

~ejb~

It's early evening when Harry arrives home from his meeting in the city. As he walks in the door he can hear music playing and he smiles, shaking his head. Erica's on a French music kick again. He walks toward the kitchen and sees her cooking. He pauses to watch her from the doorway and she doesn't know it ... typical Erica, totally absorbed in what she's doing.

Taking care not to startle her, Harry announces himself before he touches her.

"Hey there, Ace. What's cookin'? Smells fantastic." He puts an arm around her and presses a kiss to her temple.

"Hi, baby!" Her smile is warm and genuine and she comes easily into his embrace. "Well, I'm not following anybody's recipe, but I was at the Barefoot Contessa this morning and the produce looked fantastic, so I've got pasta with oven-roasted grape tomatoes, chopped garlic, extra-virgin olive oil and pine nuts."

He reaches around her, vying for a piece of garlic bread, and she moves it quickly out of his reach.

"Mm-mm," she chides, "hands off."

He feigns a pout, his eyes twinkling impishly. "Fine. It wasn't the food I wanted my hands on anyway." And with that he lifts her onto the counter, settles himself between her legs and tilts her chin up, kissing her hungrily.

She responds in kind and the spark of desire is lit. Although, she muses, does it ever burn out between them? Not hardly! She gets caught up in him. Anytime she came close to feeling this kind of passion in her life previous, there would come a point where it would ... if not die down, then at least burn slower. But this is not the case with she and Harry.

Erica buries her face in his neck, wrapping her arms around him. She listens to the beating of his heart. Wow, she thinks. So this is what love does to a playboy.

Just a few short years ago she didn't know him; had given up on the idea of finding real love. She figured if she wanted it to exist she would have to settle for writing it. And then they met. Everything about him intrigued and disgusted her in the same breath. She hated all he stood for but loved the way he engaged her, challenged her. He could understand her like no one ever truly had. He began to come out from behind the cool, aloof facade and she found that he could quantify the thoughts that were too abstract for even she to wrap words around. And he was incredibly handsome. Classically beautiful, so that she couldn't look away. Suddenly she of the walls so meticulously constructed around her heart had fallen for him.

It took him a little longer to admit it was love he felt for her. He perceived something arcing between them from the first dinner at her house, though she spent most of the time deriding him for his dating habits. He had never before been confronted by such a woman. She was successful yet self-deprecating, accomplished but humble, sharp of tongue and wit; a warm, graceful beauty who was completely unaware of her appeal. He knew he'd met his match immediately, but it wasn't until he tried to return to his accustomed lifestyle after the heart attack that he realized just how vapid that life was and how vibrant he had felt with Erica.

That she had welcomed him back without hesitation after he had left her heart shattered spoke volumes about her character and her love for him, and Harry knew he could not allow her to slip away from him ever again. He was going completely against the grain, but suddenly the only thing "the escape artist" wanted was to spend the rest of his life with her.

He proposed to her on the first anniversary of his heart attack while they were walking on the beach at sunset. "This is not just a walk, Erica," he'd said as he took her hands in his and halted their steps. He had struck the perfect balance of humor and sincerity and she laughed as tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. "This time it is a marriage proposal." They were married on their beach that Labor Day weekend.

Two years later and they're kissing in the kitchen, this moment just a microcosm of the lifetime of memories they're making together. Erica smiles against Harry's lips as they kiss again. I'll never tire of this, she thinks.

She savors the feel of his arms around her for a few minutes before pulling back. "Hey, you know, I've gotta finish dinner."

He shakes his head and grins at her. "Relentless," he teases, lifting her down from the counter. He lets her slide slowly down his body and captures her lips again.

God, he's irresistible, she thinks, not for the first time. One more kiss, lingering, and then she pushes at his shoulders. "Whew, good ... that's ... That's good," she breathes. She makes a show of smoothing hair and clothing that aren't out of place in the slightest. It's an Erica-ism that Harry finds adorable.

"Can I help?" he asks, watching her with admiration and amusement.

Her eyes smile back at him. "Yeah, thank you, baby. You can open the wine if you want, let it breathe. And all the vegetables are ready for the salad if you want to toss them together."

It's sweet and easy, companionable, as they work around one another. He steps up behind her as she stirs the pasta sauce, pulls her hips back against him and nibbles her neck. She turns in his arms, fiddles with the top button on his shirt, strokes the exposed skin she finds there. One more button, then another, and she kisses his chest, trailing down toward his navel. He moans. Good God, her mouth.

"Hey there, Mama," he says after a moment, "let's have dinner before we get too carried away here. I've got plans for you later."

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes with a shy little smile. "Is that so?" She flirts. "Do tell."

He swats her bottom playfully, unable to resist teasing her just a little. When she responds with a slight roll of her hips into his he comes back with, "Ooh, saucy little thing, aren't you? Well, I was thinking about a glass of wine in the bathtub and, uh..." He gives her a salacious look. "… other activities, should the need arise."

"Hmmm, should the need arise." She giggles. Another roll of her hips and it's her turn to tease. "I think ... think it's ... arising already, no?"

"Pretty and perceptive, hmm? I'm one lucky bastard." He kisses her, she kisses harder, and he cannot resist getting the last word. "But first you've gotta feed me, baby."