ATTENTION: THE AUTHOR IS POSTING THE LAST CHAPTER ON MAY 5. TO THANK ALL THOSE WHO HAVE READ HER STORY, SHE IS ALLOWING THE ENTIRE STORY TO BE PUBLISHED UNTIL MAY 22.

THIS BOOK OR ANY PORTION THEREOF MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION. THE SCANNING, UPLOADING, AND DISTRIBUTION OF THIS BOOK VIA THE INTERNET OR VIA ANY OTHER MEANS WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER IS ILLEGAL AND PUNISHABLE BY LAW.

ROBIN HAD TO ADMIT spending time painting sunflowers wasn't altogether as painful as he'd imagined. Men didn't spend a lot of time doing arts and crafts to his knowledge. But sitting in Regina's den and getting to know her had its perks. Learning about how she grew up, her childhood friends, her father was entertaining.

Even when the conversation turned dark for when she told him about her mother's disinterest in her and her father, when she left, she quickly changed the subject. She spoke of moving out and living on campus in college, moving back and starting at Holloway, Dunn, & Gold, and losing her father.

Her sister, Zelena, moved to London right out of high school to work as a fashion designer. Regina told him how she visits once a year in the summer and Zelena tries to visit every other Christmas. They aren't all that close but since the death of her father, they've tried to change that.

Maggie and she are closer friends than he realized. They spent time outside of the office shopping, working on their cases, and they are apart of a book club. That surprised him. She is a big reader, which he didn't know, and her favorite author was someone he'd never heard of.

He enjoyed himself, enjoyed the task of painting, putting candles into their holders, and setting coming up with a pretty decent looking centerpiece. The more time he spent with her, the more comfortable he felt around her. As they worked, she grew silent and stopped talking as much.

"Is it my turn to ask twenty questions?" she teased.

"I guess it's only fair," he said. "Well," he began changing his paintbrush for a glue gun. "My parents are originally from London. We moved here when I was about three or four. My parents moved back to London about six years ago, I guess."

"How often do you see them?"

"I haven't been home in six years," he said feeling guilty. The strain he felt settled in his shoulders. "I used to visit four or five times a year, but it's expensive, grueling, and exhausting," he said.

"I'm not big on travel myself," she said. She placed another centerpiece on the floor next to the rest in front of the fireplace. There had to be close to a hundred by now. It was going on hour three since they started.

"It's not really the travel that bothers me, I can sleep on a plane comfortably. It's more that I can't handle leaving," he admitted. He glued on the flowers, pushed the candle in place, and took it to place next to the rest.

"Why did you stay here if you miss your family?"

It was an easy enough question to ask, harder to answer. He thought about it for years and the justification for it all seemed stupid and insignificant. "I guess I'm selfish," he said. "I wanted to keep my job, my status, I liked living in America."

"That doesn't sound selfish to me," she said.

Thinking of his father, he sighed, "My father is sick, so yea, it's selfish that I put my job above him. He did everything for me and I'm not there for him now. I send them money, but it's not enough."

"Sick?" she looked distressed. He knew she knew how hard it was to care for a sick parent and lose one.

"Kidney failure," he said. "I got tested to see if I was matched, and I wasn't. I'd have donated one of mine for him. So far, he's still on a list for a match. Dialysis seems to be doing something, but he's a slave to that machine." Why did he tell her? He never told Greta, he thought. Kept that from her because he hadn't wanted to rock the boat. Some boat, he mused.

"I'm so sorry, Robin. Why haven't you been back to visit? Scared?" He looked up thinking she was teasing him, but her eyes were full of understanding. Compassion. Yes, she knew exactly what he was feeling.

"I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm terrified of seeing him feeble and small. He was my rock, the big man I looked up to. My mom sends me pictures and I can hardly recognize him. I don't know how to face it," he admitted.

He put the glue gun down knowing he needed a minute to steady his shaking hands. "That doesn't make you shameful. I watched my father change in front of my eyes. I watched him struggle and fade out into nothing. It's not easy to see, but I wouldn't trade those years for anything. I got to know him, I got to spend time with him. I miss him," she admitted. "Your father is still here."

"I know it," he said. "I know and I'm maybe planning on taking my Christmas time to go up. I just need to ready myself first." Picking up the glue gun, he moved onto the next flower, more leaves, more candles until the last few were done. He helped her move them to the floor with the rest.

"You'll come to terms with it, when you're ready. It took me a long time," she admitted. "I'm really good at isolating myself if you haven't noticed." She bit her lip and started gathering all the trash. He joined in to help her shove it all into a bag.

"It's crossed my mind why you do," he said. "A woman with the job you have, looks you have, smarts," he said. "Why would a woman who has a lot to offer close herself in and shut people out?"

Tying the bag, she seemed to ponder that as she tossed the bag out the door to an outside garbage can. Taking the empty wine glasses, she started toward the kitchen, he followed behind her. "That's a loaded question," she said.

He sat at the island while she rinsed out the glasses and placed them on the top shelf of the dishwasher. Using the towel hanging on the edge of the stove, she dried her hands. "Try the easy version," he suggested.

When she had nothing left to do, she wrung her hands together, walked toward the island, and leaned against it. He waited while she arranged the fruit that didn't need arranging. Put the bags of almonds in some kind of order and fussed with the flowers all while avoiding his eyes. "I guess trust isn't my strong suit."

"I got that on day two in the office," he said dryly. "Try something else."

"I want to blame my mother but its juvenile to give her that sole responsibility."

"Why because she left you? Parents leave children all the time," he said.

"Yes, they do. My mother was a hard woman, I knew that. Even so, when she left, I felt abandoned. That theme has been a spotlight in my life. I've had friends, relationships, and lovers who have done the same. I don't blame them, but it was a contribution. It's much easier to be alone than to worry about disappointment. Anything else, Dr.?"

Her sarcasm made him smile, "I'm not a shrink," he said. "I guess I get where you're coming from, but don't you get lonely?"

"Sure, anyone would." It surprised him that she admitted it.

Skating on the edge of danger, he said, "So you thought a child would help with that, is that it?"

"Pretty much," she shrugged. "I've always loved children. More since I started helping Maggie with her cases. There are so many that need good homes. I thought I could provide one for Roland. It just wasn't meant to be." She pouted through the stubbornness of her smile.

Moving around the room, she opened a refrigerator disguised as part of the wood of the wall. Took out two bottles of water and offered him one. "Thanks." Deciding to distract her and change the subject, he asked, "Did the bank teller give you the name of the loan officer?"

"No," she said. "There are three working on Saturday mornings. It could be any of them." She just couldn't sit or stand still, he mused. She put her bottle of water back in the fridge, fussed with the coffee pot, wiped the counters that were already clean.

"Am I making you nervous?" He made sure to keep his voice calm and controlled and to leave any teasing out of it.

"What?" She put the rag into the sink, wrung all the water out, and draped it over the side. "Why would you say that?"

He watched her closely, "You can't sit or stand still for five minutes," he said. "The counter is clean, the fruit was already arranged, the flowers are fine."

"Sorry," she flushed. "I'm not used to having guests."

"The house is clean, warm, and inviting. I've worked with you for nearly three weeks. We spend most of our days together in the same room alone. You don't fidget as much as you are now."

"In the office, I have work to do. Here, I'm used to reading a book and going to bed or working in the garden. I don't do well sitting still," she argued.

"Why don't you give it a shot?" He held out his hand, she simply stared at it before letting out a frustrated sigh and placing her hand in his. He stood and led her into the little seated alcove and pulled her onto the couch with him. "You don't have a TV in this house," he complained. "And you have too many damn pillows."

Appalled she scoffed, "I do not. They're decoration and they are nice to lean on."

He moved two from behind him and settled back, "Too many," he threw them to the side making his point. He maneuvered her in between his legs as he kicked off his shoes, her back to his chest. Like this morning, he used his hands to massage her shoulders. "You have something against television?"

"No," she said. "Behind you."

He twisted around and spotted a remote on the side table. He picked it up and handed it to her. After pressing a button, the wall atop the fireplace swung around to reveal a TV. "Nice touch," he said.

"It looks better hidden," she said. His hands came to her shoulders again to massage. She turned on the TV to reveal a news channel. Pulling up the guide, she asked, "Anything specific you had in mind?"

"No," he said distracted by her scent. "Pick something." He trailed his hands up to her neck, pressed softly, let his fingers tangle in her hair, and lifted it up to reveal her skin. As she moved down the guide, he smiled. "You have a tattoo," he laughed.

"I do," she said.

"What is it? Lean forward," he said pushing at her.

"No," she objected leaning back. "It's nothing." She settled on a comedy with Jim Carey and placed the remote next to him.

He could see the ink peeking out from under her t-shirt just under her left shoulder blade. "It'll drive me nuts until you tell me," he teased. To prove his point, he leaned forward and grazed his teeth over her earlobe. He felt her tremble and smiled. "Please," he asked softly.

He pressed his lips just behind her ear and let his tongue trail down her neck until she was squirming. "Stop it," she scolded.

He laughed as he bit down, and she lurched forward letting out a delicious-sounding moan. The sound went straight to his cock. He was only teasing, but that quickly changed when she turned around and fused her lips to his. Caught off guard, he sat back as her legs straddle his lap. For a full minute, he could only respond to her lips.

The heat in him only increased when her body pressed to his, he tried to keep his hands on the couch and off her. If he touched her, he wouldn't be able to stop. They were alone, there was no one to distract him, and it was late.

He fisted the pillows next to him as she assaulted him. Her lips were warm, her tongue sinful, and her taste intoxicating. Her hands fisted his hair and he was almost ready to snap. Twice, he tried to slow the kiss and back off.

All bets were off when she reached down and drew her t-shirt off her body. He swallowed knowing he was a goner. "Fuck," he breathed. He shot a hand into her hair gripping the back of her neck and brought her back in for a searing kiss. Her arms wrapped around him, he pulled her hips until she was as close as she could get to his body.

Even as he molded his hands to her body and she responded to him exactly as he wanted, something inside him told him to pause, to slow down, to stop. In a daze, he released her mouth and bit down on her neck feeling her pulse thudding. Her nails sunk into his arm revving him up, the sounds she made were incredibly erotic.

The voice inside his head was becoming more silent as he touched, molded, felt her body shudder. Her hands reached down to unbuckle his belt, the voice shouted, and he gripped her hands. Kissed her deeper and longer as he tried to calm himself, gather his breath, and gentle before he lifted his head.

Regina was straddling his lap, topless, he told himself. Her lips were swollen, her eyes dazed, and he was stopping. What the hell was wrong with him? She tried to pull her hands away and he tightened his grip. "Wait," he said.

"Let me go," she said breathlessly.

"Not yet," he said meeting her eyes. Was this what she wanted? Was it the moment? To test himself and her, he kept his eyes on her as he leaned in and kissed her again. Her eyes fluttered closed and she went limp. He let go of her hands and rested his arms around her. He kept the kiss soft, gentle, and lifted his head.

Regina covered her face with her hands and leaned forward resting her head on his shoulder. He held on until she said, "What are we doing?"

He caressed his fingers along her back, lifted his hands to pull her shoulders back, she leaned back to meet his eyes. "What are you doing," he laughed? "I'm just an innocent bystander who was attacked by a woman."

"I didn't attack you," she protested shoving him playfully.

"I beg to differ," he rose his brows. "You're dangerous," he grinned.

She flushed, "I'm sorry," she shook her head embarrassed. "This isn't me," she said.

"What? Dating?" He grinned when he watched her frown.

"This wasn't a date," she declared. The skin between her brows creased, her jaw set. Glancing around, she attempted to lean over and grab her shirt.

"No? Dinner, wine, movie, making out," he recounted. "Sounds like a date to me, a really good one," he added.

"I…I don't date," she said.

"I must be lucky," he teased. She tried to push back, and he held her in place. One because he didn't want to look at her body again and be tempted, and two she seemed genuinely flustered by the idea. "Relax."

"Let me go," she said almost panicked.

"Would it be so bad?" He leaned forward and brushed his nose along hers and pressed his lips softly to hers. He rested his brow on hers and felt her body relax. "You're a beautiful woman, stunning in every way. I'm an alright looking guy, I have some appealing qualities. We work well together, and I find you incredibly sexy."

To prove it, he pulled her body closer and covered her mouth with his in a deep, long, dreamy kiss. A kiss that muddled the mind, blurred reality, and steeped himself in her. Everything about her surrounded him. Her body, her scent, the conversations they shared throughout the night. Her past, her present, her personality.

When he gathered enough strength to pull back, he took a deep breath. "Are you gonna show me your tattoo now?"

Her eyes opened and she frowned, "What?"

He laughed, "What is it?"

"It's stupid," she said.

"So, let me see," he shifted her to spin around and gripped her hips to keep her from falling. At the base of her shoulder blade, was an apple. "An apple?"

"A poisoned apple," she clarified.

He brushed his fingers along the apple, the stem was sunk over, the apple was ill-formed. "Why poisoned?" He took her shirt at his side and helped her slide it back over her head as she slipped her arms into it. He pulled it down her back and turned her to sit next to him.

When she faced him, she shrugged, "I liked the evil queen," she said.

"That's it? You liked the evil queen, so you got a poisoned apple? Should I be worried you're gonna poison me?"

Laughing, she wiped her mouth and tucked her hair behind her ears, "No, it was stupid. It's a matching tattoo," she said. "Zelena has snow-white lying on the ground with the apple in her hand in the same place."

"That's just weird, I'd say you got the better end of the deal. It's small and in a place, you can't see," he said. "So, there's that."

"My father would've been furious. It was intentional. I've often thought about getting it removed. I didn't have the heart to tell Zelena. She'd be hurt."

"How old were you when you got it?"

Laughing again, she said, "Fifteen."

"You got a tattoo at fifteen? How?"

"I was mature for my age," she said. "They didn't know how old I was and didn't ask for ID. Zelena was eighteen."

Shaking his head, he laughed, "I'm not opposed to tattoos. I'm just not for them either."

"Chicken?" she asked standing from the couch.

He slid his shoes on and stood taking the hint that it was time for him to go. "No, not chicken."

Over her shoulder, she raised a brow, "A little?"

"No," he said definitively.

When they reached the front door, he took his blazer he'd left on the coat tree and slid it over his shoulders. "You look good in jeans," he decided.

Rolling her eyes, she asked, "Did you expect me to keep that dress on?"

"Truthfully? I have no idea what you look like outside of the office. If it's this…" He gestured with his hand, "I'm all for it. You look relaxed."

"Thanks," she said. She started fidgeting again. "I'll…um…see you in the morning. Nine sharp," she reminded him.

"I know," he said. "I enjoyed myself and I intend to do it again," he took a step forward and wrapped his arm around her waist. He kissed her softly, "Sweet dreams." He kissed her again and walked out of the house.

When he got in his car, he smiled seeing her with the door open waving. He lifted his hand in turn and put the key in the ignition. All the way home, he thought about her. When he slid under the covers in his bed, he closed his eyes and saw her. God, he was hooked, he admitted. The last time he was hooked, there was anxiety surrounding it. This didn't feel like that. It felt damn good.