He watched her limp off, and mentally reminded himself to get a bottle of Rose’s cure-all lotion—the anti-inflammatory properties of the CBD oil she infused went a long way toward muscle recovery.
“Hey.”
He turned to Bridge, who was already lifting a box. “What?” He took the largest of the bunch and led the way out the door.
“Why’s she staying at the inn?”
He frowned. “Because she doesn’t own a house here. She’s visiting, remember?” At the car, he balanced his box against the wheel well and popped the hatch.
“You know what I mean,” his sister insisted as she shoved her box into the trunk. “Why didn’t you invite her to stay at the house?”
“It’s your house, too. I wouldn’t just spring a guest on you. And I appreciate that you afford me the same courtesy,” he quickly added. He had no interest in being a sideline witness to the sucker parade of her love life.
His sister waved the excuse away. “She’s not a ‘guest.’ She’s a woman you’re serious about. Besides, it’s a big enough house, and it’s not like I’d be listening at your bedroom door.”
It wasn’t in the cards, but he appreciated her offer. Turning to face her, he hitched his lips into a grin. “Maybe she’s a screamer.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “More likely, you’re a dreamer.” She patted his cheek. “All men are. But if gets you two more comfortable, I can make myself scarce. You know me. I’ve got options.”
Yeah. As much as he tried to keep his head buried when it came to that sort of thing, she seemed to enjoy having options—a lot of options. People dealt with grief in different ways. Hopefully, her way was working for her, but all of the sudden, the idea of her being scarce made him sad. Maybe they’d both been too scarce for a while now. To combat that thought, and end the conversation, he caught her in a headlock, and ran his knuckles over her skull.
“Hey!” She threw an elbow into his gut, but he was ready for it.
“I don’t want you scarce, Bridge.” He noogied her one more time and endured a boot to the shin for his indulgence. “Everything is fine, as is.” Releasing her, he stepped back and ruffled her messy hair. “But thanks for offering.”
She shook her head to shoo his hand away and started walking back to the terminal. “You’re such a weirdo.”
“Back atcha.” He fell into step beside her.
“But seriously”—she shot him a look—“let me know if you change your mind.”
“I won’t, but thanks.”
Chapter Ten
“What’s all this?”
Lilah turned from pushing a tray down the hall toward Izzy’s suite and gave Trace an apologetic look. “A nice dinner. My mom insisted, and you know how she is when she decides something needs to happen. Izzy couldn’t talk her out of it, even after going over all her dietary restrictions. She did manage to convince mom to send it up to the suite, though, so you guys don’t have to eat dinner on display in the dining room.”
A small bullet dodged, as far as Trace was concerned. Spending the afternoon delivering packages and picking up a space heater from the general store before dropping Key at the house with Bridge, he’d endured bald curiosity, bold questions, and even bolder advice concerning the new woman in his life—primarily regarding how to keep her happy in Captivity. Everyone’s lack of confidence in his ability to pull it off if left to his own devices irked. True, keeping Izzy happy in Captivity wasn’t actually a goal, but still. It would be nice if people thought he had it in him.
Lilah, at least, was only following orders.
“Here. I’ll get that.” He stepped around her to unlock the door with his keycard. She murmured her thanks and waited as he pushed the door open and stood by to hold it for her while she wheeled the room service cart into the suite. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”
Izzy looked up from her spot on the sofa, in front of the fire, working away on her laptop. “Hi. And hi, Lilah.” She slid her reading glasses off and put them, plus the laptop, on the coffee table and rose—stiffly—from the couch. “You can put everything over here,” she said, moving to the small table.
Trace got a little distracted at that point, taking in her pale blue knit robe that slipped off her shoulder to reveal slender straps of a silky, white sleep top and matching pajama pants. Her bare feet boasted pearly pink polish that turned her toenails into little jewels. How had he missed that detail last night?
The sweat beading at the base of his spine couldn’t be blamed entirely on the thermostat setting. He peeled his hoodie off, pushed up the sleeves of the beige thermal he wore underneath, and hoped to get comfortable.
“I am under strict orders to lay it out picnic-style,” Lilah explained as she unfurled a white, linen tablecloth over the bed.
“A picnic…in bed?” Izzy approached, and shot him a wide-eyed look.
He, for one, loved the idea, even knowing it stemmed from Rose assuming he had to be dragged into a romantic gesture like a sick dog being dragged to the vet. “Can’t have you defying strict orders, can we, Lilah?”
“Nope.” She shook her head as she efficiently placed covered plates, napkins, a basket of bread, and small silver-capped salt and pepper shakers on the cloth. She finished by uncorking a half bottle of cabernet and pouring two glasses. She left those standing together on the nightstand closest to Izzy. “Enjoy your dinner.” Just as she was about to wheel the cart over to the door, she stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. Here…” She pulled a curvy plastic bottle from beneath the linen-draped cart and handed it to Izzy. “For sore muscles. Made right here in Captivity.”
“Oh.” Izzy took the bottle, squinted at the label. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. If you need anything else, please call.” With that, she took the cart handle and backed it toward the door.
Trace held it open for her and slipped her some folded bills. “That’s for you. Tell your mom thanks, and now she can mind her own business.”
She laughed. “I will, but I offer no guarantees.”
And then he and Izzy were alone. He stood just inside the door and watched her return to the sofa. She put the bottle of lotion on the coffee table, then powered down her laptop and placed it in the messenger bag she’d propped on the floor by the sofa. Every move seduced, from the slide of silk over her legs, to the way the robe slipped off her shoulder, to the little tendrils of hair that escaped her loose updo to curl from her temples and the back of her neck. Though glad he’d left his outerwear in the Yukon, he wished he’d changed into something nicer than the jeans and shirt he’d worn all day.