“What?” I snort out a laugh. “The olive trees?”
“They’re very private trees. They won’t appreciate the noise.”
“What noise?”
“My love.” His voice drops. His eyes darken. “The noise I intend to make you make every morning on that terrace will be heard in Spain.”
My face heats and he sees it and the delight in his expression is filthy.
“Are you blushing?”
“No.”
“You’re blushing. The woman who screamed my name in a river is blushing in a kitchen.”
“That was different. That was—”
“That was what? Less embarrassing than breakfast-terrace s*x in Portugal?”
“I hate you.”
“My love,” he says, tender and teasing and warm, “you just told me you loved me. You can’t take it back. I have witnesses.”
“What witnesses? We’re ALONE.”
“The stale crackers are my witnesses. They’ve been very suppor
