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“You can stay here another night if you need to,” she says. “It’s no problem.”
“Are you sure? The dogs and I won’t cramp your style?”
“Not at all. I don’t usually work on Saturdays anyway. But even if I wanted to, driving rain and high winds aren’t the best conditions for finding butterflies.”
“Butterflies?” I smile.
“I’m cataloguing a newly discovered crowberry blue population. We thought they were only found in Washington County, but I’ve found almost twenty this summer.” She laughs. “Doesn’t sound like much, but it’s very exciting for us wildlife nerds.”
“I get it. That is exciting.”
She shrugs. “But I can’t count butterflies or sea bird nests in the rain. So, I’ll have the whole day free to help with the dogs and anything else you need.”
“Okay great,” I say. “Thanks again.”
Anything else I need…
I don’t need to spend the day in bed with Sydney, discovering if she tastes as wonderful as she smells, but God, I want to. I want it so much that a part of me hopes the weather will take a turn for the better. As much as I enjoy her company, the less time I spend here, the better the chances I’ll leave before I do something I’ll regret with a woman who’s too young for me.
The thought reminds me that she never answered my question about her age.
But I can’t very well ask again. Asking once was suspect. Asking twice would be flat-out sketchy. But that’s fine. I don’t need to know how old she is. Sydney and I can only ever be friends and age doesn’t matter when it comes to friendship.
“Friends, just friends,” I mutter to myself after she’s left to check on the dogs and grab a shower.
I can do this. I can be just friends with a beautiful, generous, clever woman who gets adorably excited about butterflies and who’s gotten under my skin in roughly an hour and twenty minutes.
Piece of cake.
I repeat the mantra as I start the rice and set the oven to preheat to roast the cauliflower and potatoes. I’m making decent progress in convincing myself I only feel friendly feelings toward Sydney Watson when she materializes in the doorway leading into the living room in gray sweatpants, a tight black sweatshirt, and giant black-and-gray striped socks. She doesn’t have a trace of makeup on, and her hair hangs in damp, strawberry blond waves around her face, but she’s easily the sexiest thing I’ve seen in years.
She looks so cozy. So at home and so…herself. Sydney is clearly comfortable with who she is and confident in her own skin. I didn’t see my last girlfriend without makeup until we’d been dating for seven or eight months. But Sydney’s a natural beauty.
Likely, she’s aware of that and knows she doesn’t need makeup to knock a man’s socks off.
Or maybe she just thinks of me as a nice older man, a big brother type or—God forbid—a dad. She knows I have a son around her age, after all. She could have emerged in her comfy clothes simply because she doesn’t think of me as a man at all. At least, not in that way.
“I had to embrace pajamas,” she says, her tongue sweeping out to dampen her lips. “All my jeans are dirty and it’s way too yucky outside to put on dress pants.”
“Dress pants would have been an abomination at a time like this,” I agree, ribs tightening when she laughs. God, she’s beautiful.
“I knew you’d get it,” she says, her gaze dragging down my chest to my hips, lingering below my waistband long enough to make me feel things I shouldn’t feel before sweeping back up again. “If you want to join me in the comfy sweatpants life, you’re welcome to.”
“I may take you up on that after dinner,” I say, already knowing I won’t.
It would be much harder to hide the hint of an erection I’m sporting in a pair of sweatpants.
I turn back to the stove and give the rice a final stir before removing it from the burner, determined to get myself under control. “Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes. Just waiting for the cauliflower and sweet potatoes to finish roasting. I’ll sauté the spinach while they’re cooling. I’m making vegetarian rice bowls with a lemon balsamic dressing and a cheese and apple plate for dessert.”
“Sounds and smells delicious,” she says, appearing beside me and reaching for the fridge handle. “Looks like all we need is a glass of wine. Chardonnay okay for you? I have a bottle open from last night.”
“Chardonnay is great,” I say, even though I know wine isn’t a good idea.
But I’ll only have one glass. Just enough to make me sleepy, not enough to make cradling Sydney’s face in my hands again seem okay.
She closes the fridge and fetches two wineglasses from the cupboard beside the stove, her body so close to mine, I can smell the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo, feel the warmth of her skin. If she were mine, I would pin her against the cabinet, kiss her until she forgets all about pouring the wine, and slip my hand down the front of her sweatpants. I’d give her a proper thank you for picking me up in the middle of a storm and show her how glad I am I was there to keep her safe.
I want to keep this woman safe. From everything.
