She was not a virgin. I am not sure how many men she had been with before she met her late husband. The hero was an actor. Really all that is said about that is that he had mostly strictly relationships. He mentions in his headspace that he had two lovers previously I am guessing years ago that he lived with.
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Chapter One "I let myself in. She whipped them off and dropped them on the stack of manuscript pages lying on the Queen Anne desk in front of her. Her red pen, too, fell from her fingers onto the manuscript. One hand momentarily covered her left breast as though to still a pounding heart. Smiling covertly, he set his canvas duffel bag down near his feet and slid off his sunglasses.
One hundred pounds. Were these first few moments going to set the tone for the next several weeks? Not if he had anything to do with it. Not until she had taken a few steps across the terrazzo tile floor did he notice that she was barefoot.
A lot. So far, he liked everything he saw, from the top of her glossy, dark hair to those ten, tempting toes. She was wearing white jeans, which fitted her a tad too well.
In contrast, her white shirt was at least three sizes too large for her, somehow far sexier than a skin-hugging T-shirt would have been. The wide sleeves had been rolled back almost to her elbows, and the hem was brushing her thighs. He wondered if it might have belonged to her late husband. In any event, she was adorable.
One split seam had been haphazardly repaired with silver duct tape. Instead he let his attention wander to the glass wall that provided a panoramic view of the beach far below and, beyond it, the Pacific Ocean. They had seen better days. Better years. The view was one of the reasons Charlie and I bought the house. But it was a natural, unaffected characteristic—one eyebrow a fraction of an inch higher than the other; thick, short, black lashes; unmoving, brown-speckled hazel irises.
He was only trying to gauge if there was a hidden meaning behind Mrs. But perhaps there was. He was there to find out. He watched her nervously wet her lips and decided that the odds were in favor of his intuition being right on target. He wanted to look at her some more. Her lips formed a pucker of disapproval. How far could he push before she lost the rigid control she imposed on herself? Is that all right? Then he did the same with the other foot.
He took hold of the hem of his black T-shirt and peeled it over his head, ignoring her gasp of outraged surprise. His shirt joined the heap of foot apparel on the floor. He walked around the swimming pool toward the steps that led down the rocky cliff to the beach, wondering if she was watching. He would have bet his next Oscar nomination that she was.