One Night, Second Chance. Robyn Grady

      Prologue

      Turning her back on the wall-to-wall mirror, Grace Munroe unzipped and stepped out of her dress. She slipped off her heels—matching bra and briefs, too—before wrapping herself in a soft, scented towel. But when she reached the bathroom door, a chill rippled through her, pulling her up with a start.

      She sucked down a breath—tried to get enough air.

      I’m an adult. I want this.

      So relax.

      Let it go.

      A moment later, she entered a room that was awash with the glow from a tall corner lamp. She crossed to the bed, drew back the covers and let the towel drop to her feet. She was slipping between the sheets when a silhouette filled the doorway and a different sensation took hold. She hadn’t been in this kind of situation before—and never would be again. But right now, how she wanted this.

      How she wanted him.

      Moving forward, he shucked off his shirt, undid his belt. When he curled over her, the tip of his tongue rimmed one nipple and her senses flew into a spin.

      His stubble grazed her as he murmured, “I’d like to know your name.”

      She didn’t wince—only smiled.

      “And I’d like us under this sheet.”

      This evening had begun with a walk to clear her thoughts; since returning to New York, she’d been plagued by memories and regrets.

      Passing a piano bar, she was drawn by the strains of a baby grand and wandered in to take a seat. A man stopped beside her. Distinctly handsome, he filled out his tailored jacket in a way that turned women’s heads. Still, Grace was ready to flick him off. She hadn’t wanted company tonight.

      To her surprise, he only shared an interesting detail about the tune being played before sipping his drink and moving on. But something curious about his smile left its mark on her. She felt a shift beneath her ribs—a pleasant tug—and her thinking did a one-eighty.

      Calling him back, she asked if he’d like to join her. Ten minutes. She wasn’t staying long. Slanting his head, he began to introduce himself, but quickly she held up a hand; if it was all the same to him, she’d rather not get into each other’s stories. Each other’s lives. She saw a faint line form between his brows before he agreed with a salute of his glass.

      For twenty minutes or so, they each lost themselves in the piano man’s music. At the end of the break, when she roused herself and bid him good-night, her stranger said he ought to leave, too. It seemed natural for them to walk together, discussing songs and sports, and then food and the theater. He was so easy to talk to and laugh with...There was almost something familiar about his smile, his voice. Then they were passing his building and, as if they’d known each other for years, he asked if she’d like to come up. Grace didn’t feel obliged. Nor did she feel uncertain.

      Now, in this bedroom with his mouth finding hers, she wasn’t sorry, either. But this experience was so far from her norm. Was it progress