A/N Thank you to all of my lovely reviewers. A little nervous to learn that Eninaj has only just come back from the Lakes, as I am basing my observations of the geography on one brief trip there many, many moons ago!

Actually laughed out loud at Bridget's Chekhov's Hot Tub comment! It was only meant to be a throwaway set piece, but maybe i'll see if I can weave it into the story...

Oh, this Chapter is especially for Mcbenzy who requested a When Harry Met Sally scene in my last story...

After they returned to shore and when Assumpta finally recovered from her embarrassment over passing our drunk in front of the very man she'd been hoping to impress, the holidaymakers retired to the den.

In an attempt to prove his manhood, Peter endeavoured to light a fire, despite having never lived in a house with a working fireplace before.

"Seriously Peter, will you let me just do it."

Struggling to arrange the firewood into a pyramid shape, the curate shook his head. "I've got this. You just concentrate on nursing your hangover."

"For the last time, I was not drunk. I am not hungover."

"Make a habit of passing out after lunch then do we?"

Assumpta pulled a face at his back. "It's called a Siesta smart-arse. It's very European."

Peter smiled warmly and returned to his fire building leaving his guest to luxuriate with her book on the full expanse of the couch. She'd taken an impossibly long bath after they returned from the boat and now smelt and looked even more divine than usual, dressed only in a blue and purple silk kimono.

While he screwed up balls of newspaper, Peter couldn't help but consider their agreed sleeping arrangements tonight. They'd agreed before even leaving Ireland on separate sleeping quarters throughout the trip. Sharing a bed – or even a room – would only lead an inevitable conclusion that neither was at all ready to face, in spite of their previous actions to the contrary.

As he allowed his eyes to linger on the vast expanse of ivory skin peeking through the slits of the dressing gown, the curate immediately regretted that decision.

As if reading his discomfort, exploiting it for her own amusement, Assumpta bent her knee slightly to allow the material to ride even further up her thigh.

Peter twisted the paper until he'd lost all feeling in his hands. It was all he could do to prevent himself from pulling the gown up even higher – from running his mouth along the gaping material allegedly covering her chest.

"Are you hungry?" he heard his mouth utter nervously. "I can make us something if you like? Beans on toast? Cheese sandwiches?"

"You and your stomach." Assumpta murmured under her breath.

But it wasn't his stomach that was the problem. Peter shifted uncomfortably on the rug. "I'll fix some popcorn then. Maybe we can watch a movie too?"

"As long as I get to pick it."

Her companion winced nervously. Judging by that peep show on the couch, Assumpta was sure to pick something R-rated that would only goad the Priest further.

So it was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that he returned to find When Harry Met Sally playing on the television.

"Seriously?" he pleaded.

"Oh, get over it. It's either this or Die Hard and I know which you'd rather."

Handing her the popcorn, he sat down on the floor by her feet. "Good guess" he teased.

"Do I have cooties or something?"

"What?"

The woman gestured to the other side of the couch. "Plenty of room up here, you know."

"I'm fine on the floor," he maintained. "Thought I'd let you stretch out."

"Priests!" Assumpta muttered under her breath. "You make a living out of being uncomfortable."

The curate smirked at her astute observation. More than you know, Assumpta.

The pair were already asleep by the time the credits rolled. After an hour on the hard ground, Peter succumbed to the pain in his back and joined the publican on the couch, which brought a new discomfort of its own.

As the film wore on, Assumpta's bare legs drew closer and closer to Peter's knees, until – under the guise of stretching – they found their way onto his lap, where they remained for the rest of the film.

Although the movie was awful, the curate amused himself by tracing concentric circles on the impossibly soft flesh that cocooned him. He began with the pads of her feet and then, idly following the sparse freckles on her legs, moved to her calves and her knees before settling on the milky ivory of her thigh.

He enjoyed the way her skin pebbled as he touched it. He strained to hear the shallowness of her breathing as his fingertips encroached further up her leg. By comparison, Peter's decidedly more conservative attire shrouded his own arousal. But there was no hiding the tremble of his hand as he approached the uppermost part of Assumpta's thigh.

A breath hitched in both of their throats. Were they really going to do this? Was this allowed?

Tentatively, Peter resumed his upward course, settling finally on the irresistible curve of her behind. This was okay, he reasoned. Pushing the envelope sure, but not opening it entirely.

For Assumpta however, the sensation was almost unbearable. After an eternity of seemingly running his fingers along every millimetre of her bare legs, this was where he stopped?

In protest, she arched her back slightly, pushing into the full expanse of his hand, forcing the curate's fingertips to grace the irrepressible heat of her inner thigh.

But still he didn't waver. Although his breathing was laboured and his eyes were suddenly transfixed by the film, his hand stayed where it was. Titillating and torturing in equal measure.

After a few minutes of stoicism, Assumpta shifted positions, opting instead to rest her head sleepily on Peter's chest.

As her eyes grew heavy, just one though reverberated through the publican's head.

I'll get back tomorrow, Peter Clifford. I'll get you tomorrow.