“Only when I have to. She belongs to my daughter, who’s in college. Addison left me a thirty-six-page manual on the care and feeding of Whinnie. A neighborhood kid comes out a few times a week to exercise her.”
Vonn said nothing but gave Whinnie a long stroke down her neck. The horse shivered with delight. I couldn’t blame her.
“Anything else need doing out here?” he asked, those fierce blue eyes landing on me.
I shook my head. “She’s all set for the night.”
He nodded. “I’ll shovel a path out here in the morning.”
“You don’t—”
“Brooke.”
It sounded like a warning.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
He hooked a thumb toward the door. “House. Let’s go.”
We ducked back out into the snow, Betty leading the way and Vonn bringing up the rear.
“What’s that place?” he asked.
I turned and saw he was peering through the dark and the snow at the golden glow.
“That’s the Milton Estate,” I explained. “One of the town founders built it. It’s gorgeous. There’s a pool, an actual rose garden, and this barn the last owner turned into studio space for his wife’s photography business.”
The fanciful stone house and outbuildings sat on three acres of prime real estate like a modern day fairytale come to life.
“Wow,” I said, sniffing the air when we returned to the house. It smelled like my favorite scent: homecooked meal that someone else made.
“Needs about half an hour in the oven,” he announced.
“I’ll show you your room, then. So you can get changed and shower…” I trailed off, realizing he would be naked. Mere feet from my bedroom.
“Sure you don’t have a concussion?” he asked, lips quirking.
“Oh, shut up. I’m tired and hungry and sore.” I led the way upstairs, admittedly a little slower than usual. “Guest room is here and the bathroom is right across the hall.”
He stood there holding an impressive amount of luggage, taking in the gallery of family photos I had hanging in the hallway. That assessing gaze came back to me, and I couldn’t ignore the effect it had on my heart beat.
Betty galloped up the stairs and plopped her butt on the floor between us, waiting for one of us to move. But still he watched me.
“Thanks,” Vonn said finally.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll see you downstairs.”
I closed myself in my bedroom and leaned against the door.
“Pull yourself together,” I whispered to myself.
I felt almost human again after a hot shower, during which I tried not to fantasize about the bassist in the guest shower. The mirror had revealed some pretty spectacular bruising in a few places, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
The cut on my forehead hadn’t fared as well under the faucet. It had opened again, and between the shower water and fresh blood, I needed to change the bandage. Dressed in soft leggings, a tank top, and a long, cozy cardigan, I made my way downstairs.
My fuzzy-socked feet came to a stop.
Vonn had beaten me downstairs and made himself at home. The lights on the Christmas tree were on. Soft, instrumental Christmas music hummed from the speaker my kids had insisted I needed. Best of all, an honest-to-goodness fire crackled in the hearth.
I loved the romance of a fire. But now it never seemed worth the effort to build one for myself.
The kitchen timer brought me out of my stupor, and then Vonn put me right back in it.
The man had changed out of his stage clothes into a pair of gray sweatpants and a white V-neck T-shirt. His feet were bare and his hair was still damp. He looked delicious. And whatever he was checking on in the oven smelled just as delicious as he looked.
Betty obviously agreed because she was sprawled at his feet, staring at him lovingly.
He chose that moment to look up. I felt his gaze travel from my purple snowflake socks, up my legs, over my torso and chest before stopping on my face. We locked eyes for a long beat before his eyes moved to my forehead.
“Thank you for the fire,” I said.
“Bleeding again,” he stated.
“Yeah. I was wondering if you could…” Lamely, I held up the box of butterfly bandages and a bottle of liquid bandage.
He crooked his finger at me, and my feet shuffled forward of their own will. When he turned to wash his hands I tried unsuccessfully to pry my eyeballs off his very nice ass. The man was the perfect physical specimen. Hands washed and dried, he approached. I held my breath as he stepped into my space.
At five feet, eight inches, I was tall with long legs. But Vonn cleared six feet with room to spare. Standing this close to him I was looking at the tattoo that peeked out of the neckline of his shirt. In a trance, I watched as he reached toward me. His fingers made contact under my chin, nudging it up.
There was something desperately intimate about the touch. My eyes met his, and I saw no evidence of a smile or the dimple he’d shown earlier.
His hand dropped from my chin only to splay on my stomach, the strip of exposed skin between the hem of my tank and the waistband of my pants catching fire at his touch. I wanted more. I wanted him to slide that hand under my shirt so his palm was hot and hard against my stomach.
I didn’t realize he was guiding me backward until my back met the counter.
He stepped in closer, his feet between mine as I leaned back ever so slightly. I couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. Surrounded by that salt-and-pepper beard, his lips looked so kissable.
We weren’t touching, but every cell in my body was aware that all it would take was one tiny inch. My nipples puckered under my shirt, and I immediately regretted not putting on a bra.
I could feel his breath on my face. The heat pumping off his body. The intensity of his gaze. I didn’t understand how a man could be so infuriating and infatuating at the same time.
“Still breathing?” he asked, his mouth twisting in a gentle smirk.
I nodded, then sucked in a breath.
“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” he said quietly.
For a second I thought he was going to kiss the hell out of me or at least whip my shirt off. But instead, he went for the gauze on my forehead. Disappointing.
Carefully he peeled back the tape and went to work.
“I shouldn’t be the one doing this,” he murmured as he dabbed at the wound.
“I can probably handle it from here,” I decided. Being this close to him was a mistake. I tried to shift away from him, but he caged me between his arms, hands on the counter on either side of my hips.
“Not what I meant, babe.”
My eyes met his, and I stopped breathing again. “What did you mean?”
“Why are you with that asshole?”
“Who? Mark?”
“My woman brings me to a concert, I’m sure as fuck not deserting her in the middle of it. She gets hurt? I’m not letting another man take care of her. Get rid of the dead weight, Brooke.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I said, feeling snarky, “but Mark has a lot on his mind.”
He pressed a butterfly bandage into place, then dipped down until I met his eyes. “From where I’m standing, he’s got the wrong things on his mind.”
Okay. That was flirting. Right? Or was it the head wound confusing things?