If he had a penny for every time some well-meaning ass-hole had told him that, he’d buy each and every one of them a fucking clue. He wanted what he’d lost, and short of that, he planned to continue to wallow in peace.
But she didn’t leave. He knew this because he could feel her whiskey eyes boring holes in his face. “What now, Goldilocks?”
“It’s dark out there.” She was peering out the window into the admittedly dark, cold night. The sharp wind whistled through the trees and rattled the glass. “It’s so secluded.” She turned to him. “A gentleman would offer to walk me.”
He didn’t know how to break it to her, but he was no gentleman.
“Cameron?”
“Shh, he’s sleeping.”
She let out a sound that defined annoyance. “You are the singularly most unhelpful man I’ve ever met.”
Yeah, He already knew that.
She was shifting around again and bumped into his legs. “Please move so I can get by.”
He didn’t. Interesting that he usually shied away from touch-with the exception of sex, that is-and yet he remained utterly still now, absorbing the fact that her legs were knocking into his.
The sensation was shockingly pleasant.
Unlike her talking. That was distinctly not pleasant. He wanted silence. Needed silence. Needed that more than his next breath.
“Excuse me.”
Without opening his eyes, he dropped his legs down so she could pass him, then settled in again, his hands linked low on his belly, head back, eyes still closed.
The front door opened, then shut.
Ah, yeah. Perfect. Finally alone, where he could contemplate how he’d tell his brothers and Annie that he was back-
“Dammit.”
He shook his head and opened his eyes. Yep, there she was, still with him, leaning against the door, chewing on a thumbnail, her hair wild around her face, her eyes filled with misgivings, her body-
Well, wasn’t that a shame. She’d dressed.
She’d put on white jeans and a pink soft fuzzy sweater that zipped from chin to waist, with two tassels hanging down stopping just short of her breasts, pointing to them as if in emphasis of how long it’d been since he’d last seen a woman’s breasts.
“It’s really dark out there.”
“Yes,” he agreed, looking to where the stars littered the black velvet sky like a sea of diamonds. There was no sky on earth like a Sierra night sky. He waited to be moved by it, as a sort of test, a gauge of his emotional depth. He waited for the mystic wonder to hit him like it used to.
Waited.
And waited…
Nothing. Not even a twinge. “Which means it’s also too dark for any ax murderers to find you,” he pointed out.
“That may be, but there’s something else out there, something that always lurks in the bushes and makes this sort of rustling noise. It’s done it all week.”
He met her gaze. Those pale, clear depths could really haunt him, could make him yearn. Except he no longer did things like get haunted or yearn. “Nothing’s stalking you. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Well, there’s been some sightings of Big Foot over the years.”
She looked horrified but spoke bravely, “There’s no such thing.”
“Tell that to the people who reported seeing him. Or to the bushes next time they…rustle?”
She nodded in confirmation. “There must be an explanation.”
“Sure there is. It’s Old Pete. He runs the gas station in town. He grew up on a commune and hasn’t shaved since the seventies.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Is this amusing to you?” Her hands went to her hips. “Making fun of my fears?”
What was amusing was his own reaction to baiting her. Why it was so much fun, he had no idea, but he was enjoying the spark in her eyes, the attitude all over her, and for some stupid reason, loved her crazy bed-head hair. “I’m sorry.”
“You are not.”
Okay, he wasn’t. “Look, I’m tired. It’s like three in the morning. I’m feeling punchy.”
“It’s one. One in the morning.”
“Well, it feels like three. I’ve been up for thirty-six hours straight and I’m dead on my feet.”
“Does that mean you’re not moving?”
“Not a single inch.” He closed his eyes again.
“Maybe Annie-”
“Go for it. But fair warning, she’s cranky when she doesn’t get her sleep.”
A sound of frustration left her, but Cam was already drifting off, dreaming about his knee
Huh.
Seemed as if maybe he was feeling plenty of things, after all.
Chapter 2
Cam woke up to the sun slanting through the window into his face.
And something else was right in his face.
The temp, the one with a healthy fear of ax murderers and the dark. The one with the quick wit and shiny hair and the sweet soulful eyes that stared into his as if he were a loaded shotgun. Odd how he found that sexy. “Hey…” He’d already forgotten her given name.
“Katie,” she supplied helpfully, in the tone of “Bite me, asshole.”
Aw, she thought he was sexy too.
“You fell asleep,” she said tightly.
She had a point, and in the light of day, which was currently blinding him, he felt just a little bit guilty that he hadn’t gotten up and left her his cabin. “I was really tired-”
Abruptly, she turned and left the bedroom.
Yeah, that charm of his was working wonders.
She’d made his bed. She’d changed her clothes, fixed up her hair, and apparently also built up a pretty big attitude. With a sigh, he got up, his knee giving him a hot, fiery stab of pain just for shits and giggles. Wincing, he thought belovedly of the Vicodin he’d given up because he’d liked it too much, and followed her into his living room, noticing that her hair smelled good, damn good. “I really am sorry.”
“You are forgiven,” she said formally, even politely, as she handed him back his key and picked up her bags, turning toward the door.
In his experience, women weren’t much into forgiving, so her words left him a little confused. “I’m forgiven?”
“Absolutely.” She struggled to hold her stuff and open the front door, so he reached around her to help. Their hands tangled on the knob. Her hair smelled good. And then there was her booty, a very fine booty, which bumped into the front of his thigh, and he abruptly, unexpectedly, noticed her as a woman.
Okay, so he’d noticed her as a woman last night, in her tank top sans bra. He’d have to have been dead not to;
