“I heard you girls had a fun night.”
Her smile grew into something slightly smug and…knowing. “Well, I slept down the hall from Izzy, and from what I heard, you had a fun night, too.”
Oh, damn. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, which was suddenly hot. Had he and Izzy accidentally corrupted young, innocent Lilah? “I, uh, think maybe you overheard Izzy watching a movie or something. One of those movies you’re too young to see.”
Her laugh said she wasn’t buying it. “I’m old enough to get into any movie these days. But if it was a movie, it must have been a really good one. I think Izzy would give it five stars. Bye, Trace.”
“Bye,” he murmured, then belatedly added, “Thanks for taking care of the dog,” as she drove away. When, he wondered, had little Lilah Iquat gotten old enough to see X-rated movies—or recognize phone sex when she heard it?
Time marched on, apparently, whether one paid attention or not. Maybe he’d been too deep into his own world, his own thoughts, for the last few months, but it felt like his eyes were slowly opening now. Not just opening but seeing beyond a fog of grief and regret—and some really disquieting dreamlike encounters he hoped not to repeat—to focus on other things. Things like change. Things like the future. Things like the woman upstairs, asleep in his bed.
That got his blood fired up again. He left the Rover out front, grabbed his coat and go-bag, and ran through the drizzle to the side door, unsurprised to find it unlocked. Half the locals never locked a house or a car. During the off-season, crime in Captivity consisted mainly of petty misdemeanors or altercations arising from drunk decision-making, but in that case, generally the kind of thing the people involved saw coming.
Key ran to the door as soon as his hand touched the knob and broke into a barking exuberance Bridget called The Long-Lost Reunion. There you are! Where have you been? You’ve been gone forever! I have missed you! Pet me now!
Trace pushed the door open and quickly shut it behind him, before kneeling and rubbing the ecstatic animal from ears to flanks. “Shh. Quiet, Key. Izzy’s sleeping.”
Key took it down a notch and turned in a circle. Izzy’s here! You’re here! We’re all here!
“Shh,” he repeated, and got to his feet. “Come on.” The dog followed him to the kitchen, tap-dancing around his feet when Trace opened the pantry door where they kept the treats. He snagged two from the bag and held them up. “Bed.”
Key gave an excited whine, but padded over to his bed, got in, did his obligatory series of circles to get the stuffing precisely how he wanted it, and then lay down.
“Good boy.” Trace held out one of the treats so Key could take it directly from his hand. The other he tucked by the dog’s front paws. Giving his big, white head one last pat, he muttered, “Stay.” After washing his hands at the sink, he headed out of the kitchen.
Halfway up the stairs he could tell that despite Key’s barking, Izzy remained asleep. The quiet stillness coming from the second floor ran too deep. Izzy, awake, tended to be in a state of motion. Even sitting at his desk in his office at the airfield, working, her restless energy found small escapes. She bounced a leg, swung a foot, or fiddled a pen between her fingers if they weren’t flying over her keyboard. The thought of waking her slowly and channeling all her energy into a sweaty pursuit of mutual satisfaction had him quickening his pace.
He winced at the squeak of hinges when he opened his bedroom door, but the form under his comforter didn’t move. He winced again at the slightly less pronounced squeak when he closed the door, but it had to be done. A man didn’t want to get interrupted by a 127 pound husky when deeply engaged in certain activities.
After silently dropping his bag and coat on a chair in a corner of the room, he walked over to the bed. And grinned. Izzy wasn’t just buried under his comforter, she was wrapped in it, burrito-style. Only her head peeked out—a cameo-worthy profile snuggled against a pillow and a long flow of dark waves cascading across blue plaid sheets. Flannel sheets. The kind his mother would have called “the good sheets.” The detail fanned the flame of affection he felt for his sister. She’d taken some pains to make the place nice for Izzy.
He’d take pains to make it even nicer, assuming he got her buy-in. And if he didn’t, well, she’d likely start her morning watching a grown man cry. Kneeling to bring his face close to hers, he ran his fingers through the hair at her temple, brushing it back from her face. “Isabelle?”
“Nuh…” Her brows scrunched. She snuggled deeper into the comforter and pressed her face into the pillow. It shouldn’t have been sexy, but for some reason, it was. Or maybe it was the idea of unbundling her from the blankets to find her warm and naked, and, if he woke her properly, ready for him. He traced the curve of her upper lip to the corner, then down the slope of her lower lip.
They parted on a soft sigh, so he smoothed the pad of his thumb over the velvety fullness of her lower lip. “Izzy?”
She shifted onto her side. Dark lashes fluttered. Unable to resist, he swept a fingertip along the line of her lashes, capturing the tickle of the feather-light caress. He moved on to stroke the rise of her cheekbone, watching as one sleepy brown eye opened, then the other. “Hey…” Sleep made her voice extra husky. “You’re home. I guess I slept in.”
“I’m just a figment of your subconscious. It’s early. You’re still asleep, and you’re having another one of those naked Trace dreams that get you all hot and bothered when you wake up.”
Her lips twitched, which he took as a good sign. “You know about those, huh?”
“I do. I’m painfully familiar with the naked Izzy version of those dreams.” He skimmed his fingers along the line of her jaw. “What should we do about them?”
Her eyes sobered. Her smile faded. “Probably nothing. We’re not on the phone telling bedtime stories anymore. This is real life.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed her number. A gentleman would take her words as a no. And he’d been raised right, but he couldn’t back off without at least trying to point out how stupid the damn rule was. Maybe not always, for all people, but right here, right now, between them? It created a fine line that made no sense to stay on one side of.
Her phone, screen-down on his nightstand, chimed.
Biting her lip, she looked at him. “Seriously?”
He jerked his head toward her phone.
She sighed, rolled her eyes, but reached a slender arm out of the blanket, picked up the phone, and answered, “You’re ridiculous. You know that, right?”
“These are your ridiculous rules, woman. I’m just trying to abide by them. You need to do this over the phone, no problem. Should I go to another room? Out to the car? How much yardage before it’s okay? Don’t laugh. I’m not joking. I’ll go the distance for you.”