“That’s the closet.”
Fine.
He wants to be difficult?
I can handle difficult.
I march into his room, around the pile of laundry, another pile of towels, and step on something that squeaks under my foot.
I freeze. “Did I just kill one of James’s frogs?”
His lips twitch, and a lightness that I haven’t seen in too long comes into his eyes. “Yes,” he lies.
“I did not,” I hiss.
He coughs quietly and ducks his head. “Don’t lift your foot though. That’s a magic toy. It makes more noise when you let it go than it does when you squeeze it the first time.”
No way.
I look down, and the squished pink face of some kind of barn animal stares back at me. “So this is like a toy bomb.”
“Yep, and if it wakes my kids, they’re all yours.”
I start to lift my foot, because I’m positive he’s teasing me, but the toy under my foot immediately starts to SQUEEEEEE.
“Oh my god, who would give that to someone?” I whisper-shriek while I slam my foot back down.
“Uncle Levi. I can’t wait until he has kids of his own. Payback’s gonna be fun.”
While I can appreciate that sentiment, I don’t want to wake his kids. They’ve been sick, and I don’t want to explain what I’m doing in their dad’s bedroom at this hour of the night.
Also, he’s now stripping out of his pants, and I can’t do anything about it because I’m stepping on the world’s loudest toy bomb.
My heart races. My throat goes dry. And Tripp—the responsible one—grins at me before turning his back and striding to the bathroom in nothing more than his boxer briefs.
That ass—and the tattoo on his shoulder blade—and that hint of a growing hard-on that I caught before he turned around—leave me staring with my mouth open.
I’m no virgin, but I get more action out of reading romance novels than I do in real life, and I’m positive I’ve never seen a naked body that beautiful up close and in person before.
Plus—Tripp has a tattoo?
Didn’t see that coming.
I involuntarily take a step toward the bathroom, and the toy I stepped on gives a long, loud unholy high-pitched noise that ends just as I shove it under the pile of towels to muffle it.
I hear water running in the bathroom. The door’s cracked, and I have a clear view of the mirror, which I actively make myself not look at, because I’m already sweating at knowing that Tripp’s completely naked and maybe twenty steps away.
Need.
Space.
Mostly because he needs a good meal, a solid night of rest, and all the reassurances I can give him that Uncle Guido won’t be back.
The bed is taunting me. The sheets are rumpled, and there’s a musty smell to the whole room that suggests this is the last place Tripp’s worried about, but I still want to grab him and roll around on those dark sheets.
I blow out a slow breath and approach his dresser while his soft moan of pleasure that goes with finally getting a much-needed shower joins the running water.
Not. Helping.
I pretend I’m not digging through his underwear drawer while I find fresh clothes for him—neatly folded sweatpants, wool socks, and boxer briefs. I can’t find any shirts, so I end up in his closet, where everything is organized, of course. One rack of jeans that are probably ironed. One rack of shirts, casual on one end, dress on the other. A rack of suits. Shoes neatly lined on a shoe organizer, sneakers to loafers to wingtips. Drawers for tie tacks and cufflinks and a shelf with spare towels, blankets, and sheets for his king-size bed.
I pick a shirt with a cat shooting rainbow laser beams out its eyes at a leprechaun, which I’m guessing was a gift from someone, and grab a set of fresh sheets.
Because a man who’s been caring for everyone else deserves fresh linens, I tell myself.
Not because I want to spend time touching the bed where he sleeps every night.
I strip and replace the sheets, give the pillows an extra fluff, and then, when I should just leave his clothes on his bed and go downstairs to make him a sandwich, instead, I square my shoulders and march into the bathroom.
To make life easy on him, I tell myself.
So he doesn’t have to leave the bathroom to get dressed.
“Clean clothes,” I announce.
I don’t look at the glass shower door.
Much.
It’s fogged over, and all I can really see is the outline of his body. I remind my heavy breasts and suddenly needy clit that this is not sexual.
But the fogged shower door opens, water still running, and Tripp’s head pokes out.
His hair is dripping and catching in the thick stubble, and the scent of something woodsy and clean drifts out on the steam while his eyes lock on mine. “You…”
His voice trails off like he’s uncertain if he’d rather chastise me or thank me for going through his drawers, but I’m okay with that.
Because his eyes are going dark, his lids are lowering, and his attention is shifting to my lips.
This is where I should leave.
And not let my own gaze drift down his dripping chest to check out just how much he’s enjoying that shower.
But he crooks a finger.
A silent come here.
I’m probably in for it. Undoubtedly, he’s going to dunk me in the shower stream, fully clothed, and tell me that’s what I get for invading his privacy.
But I still obey the beckoning. “Do you need help getting your back?”
He doesn’t answer, but instead opens the shower door wider, reaches out to cup my cheeks with warm, wet hands, and pulls me close to brush his lips against mine. My eyes slide closed, my shoulders relax, and I lean closer and mimic the motion that I’ve been craving since I left Copper Valley.
This slow, gentle caress of lip against lip.
There’s the teeniest part of my brain telling me we shouldn’t do this. That I’m technically his boss. That his kids could catch us. That he’s not the casual, friends-with-benefits fling type. That I’m the love-’em-and-leave-’em type.
But my fingers are exploring his cool, wet arms while our slow, hesitant kisses become a full-mouth connection, breaths mingling, hands roaming.
I want to know every inch of him. Where to touch him to make his breath catch. The taste of his skin. If his hair curls at the ends when it grows out a little more. What it takes to make him lose control.
But mostly, I just want to be here.
With him.
No boundaries. Learning. Discovering. Stroking. Kissing. Holding.
I want to make love to him in candlelight with rose petals scattered around us, in a turret tower with the starry sky open above us. I want to have snowball fights with him that end with the two of us laughing in a pile of snow, with cold noses and fingertips that need to be warmed from the inside out. I want to stride into his office, lock the door, and unbutton my blouse while I watch his eyes go dark with desperate need for me.
I want my fantasies to move out of the pages of a book and into reality.
With Tripp.
And it’s terrifying, because I’ve never let any man into my life for more than a few weeks.
Ever.
Uncle Guido always finds dirt. Or I get spooked. Or I realize I’ll have to tell them all of my secrets.
I want to trust Tripp.
I want to trust him with everything.