“I did.” He liked her like this, half-asleep and one step short of sputtering. For the moment, at least, there was no wall of ice between her thoughts and those soft-looking lips. “About not talking about a certain unmentionable event.”
“No. You said—you said there’d be no walking around in lingerie.”
“For you, and Bunny and Fi-fi.” He pulled on the hem of his shorts. “This isn’t lingerie.”
A flush crept up her jaw. The lack of sleep had taken its toll on her wits. He knew she’d spent most of the night in the basement, clanging glassware, running water, unpacking boxes. He hadn’t heard her climb the stairs until nearly two a.m. He’d noted the time, because he’d been lying wide awake atop tangled cotton sheets, trying not to remember the thing he’d promised to forget.
“Those rules apply to you, too.” She turned away from him, yanked open a cabinet, and searched for something. “If I were in plain cotton underwear, you’d consider it lingerie, wouldn’t you?”
He spoke around the tightening of his throat. “I’d make that judgment as I saw it.” Can I see it?
“I consider what you’re wearing,” she said, slamming the cabinet door and yanking open another, “the male version of lingerie.”
“Consider me misinformed, then.” He crossed one arm across his chest and shrugged. “From now on, I’ll wear nothing.”
She slapped open and closed another set of cabinets. The orange juice carton wobbled where she’d placed it half atop the cutting board, half on the counter. He reached over his shoulder, pulled open a cabinet and curled his fingers around a glass.
He held it out for her. “Is this what you’re looking for, Jenny?”
She snatched it, showed him her back, and poured herself some juice. She was freezing into ice again. The time to make a better impression was before she hid within a block of it.
“So,” he said, scalding his tongue on the coffee. “What are your plans for the day?”
“Field work.” She rolled against the counter and cast him an odd look. “I’ll be out of your way.”
“At the national park.”
“Yes.” She took a sip of juice. “I need to collect samples. It’ll take a good long time.”
“You will need help finding them.”
She raised a brow. “I do this for a living. Dr. Springfield gave me directions.”
“Last time I checked, there were no street signs in that old forest.”
“I’ve got a Ph.D. in botany, Macallister. I’ll manage.”
Man, he’d gotten under her skin. He let his gaze slip over the skewed kimono and thought about how he’d like to put her in a better humor—and then pushed the thought away.
He’d made a promise “It can’t be easy searching for green plants in green woods—”
“I’ll stick to my job, Mr. Macallister. You stick to—” she waved a hand around the room “—to whatever is yours.”
He flinched. He knew he deserved that. He hadn’t worked an honest day in over six months, and hadn’t yet bothered to make any effort to do so. Until this very moment, he hadn’t given a damn.
“You’re in this cabin, invading my privacy,” he said, “so that makes you my job today.” He slid the half-empty cup on the counter and braced his hands behind him, on the solid granite. “The sooner you’re done with your work, the sooner you can be free of me and my lingerie. So. Let me help.”
She crossed her arms, holding the orange juice aloft. “You don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“John told me.”
“In the briefest of details, no doubt.”
“Back in March,” he said, feeling like a grunting brute, “when John first lent me the place, he dragged me to the park to help him search for some new species of honeysuckle. I took photos while John blathered on, like he always does when he’s excited about work.” Logan had just come back from the South American clinic and John’s chattering had been a welcome balm. “John mentioned something about another researcher he intended to contact to research the possibility of medicinal properties—”
“That’s me.” Jenny said, a line deepening between her brows. “But there were three species he was interested in testing. The honeysuckle and two others.”
“I know where the honeysuckle is.” He buried his nose in his coffee cup and breathed the bitterness of the grounds, trying to mask the memory of the funereal fragrance. “I can take you to the other places where John collected samples, but once there you’re on your own.”
“I’ve got a map of the park—”
“It’s dozens of square miles with very few trails.”
“Then I’ll show you Dr. Springfield’s written directions.” she said, wariness on her face, “and you can add context.”
“Better if I just take you there.”
Frost lightened those Icelandic eyes. “What happened to staying away from each other, Macallister?”
“We can go our own ways after.” Why the hell was he offering? “Once you’ve found what you came here for.”
“It’s generous of you,” she said, “to take a day off for my benefit.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So is this how cowboys apologize?”
He wasn’t apologizing. Not really. Well, maybe he was. But why the hell couldn’t she just swallow the story he’d given her? She was squinting at him now, like she was trying to determine his genus and species. He turned his back on her using the excuse of washing his now-empty coffee cup. Shoving the faucet on, he grabbed the sponge. Had he been away from human company for so long that he no longer knew how to act like a decent guy around a pretty woman? It didn’t help that he had the sight of her fixed in his head. The cooler she behaved toward him, the more he wanted to tease her, the more he wanted to see the flush of anger on her face, or lust, or any passion, any passion at all, as long as it was directed toward him.
“Listen.” He shoved the faucet off and
