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Before leaving the room—which I’ve come to love with its gaping windows always full of streaming sun or shimmering moonlight—I flip my head down and give my hair a good finger-combing to keep it from drying in clumps.
It’s so freaking hot today I don’t feel like blowing it dry, which is the only way it’ll hang straight, so I’m calling it good.
Just before I open my door, my hand lingers on the knob, my pulse in my throat.
I haven’t felt like this since my first morning here, unsure what I’d find.
But this is worse in a different sense.
The signals flying back and forth between us today were unmistakable.
I hope.
I hope Grady wants to get closer.
The only question is, will that sexy bourbon sip of a man have the courage to follow through?
And if he does, will I?
Grady stands in the kitchen when I exit my room with my heart buzzing.
Despite all I know about myself and the raw desire flaring like a Roman candle, the sight of him still rips my breath away.
He’s a human tank. His jeans hug his narrow hips and muscular thighs. His hunter-green Army shirt outlines his thick biceps and rippled chest in a wicked hint, complimenting the dark swirl of hair around his face I want to lace my fingers through so badly.
God.
A man with a beard like his needs a permit to carry. It’s basically a lethal weapon to ladykind.
“Feeling better?” he greets me.
My mouth has gone too dry to speak, so I just nod.
“Good. I had the girls bring down their dirty clothes from today,” he says. “They’re in the washer if you want to add yours.”
Swallowing, I nod again.
“Oh, yeah. Good idea. Be right back.”
I can’t decide if I like the sudden distance from him or despise it. But the simple act of gathering my dirty clothes, carrying them to the laundry room, and starting the machine helps me regain control over my baser wanna-jump-him-now senses.
Now let’s hope it sticks.
“I’ve put the steaks in a marinade,” Grady calls from the kitchen. “It’ll be forty-five minutes before I can grill them.”
“Sounds yummy. The potatoes should be done by then.” I try to sound as normal as possible while I put the jug of laundry soap back on the shelf. “Do I smell citrus?”
“Yep. My ma’s old recipe with plenty of garlic, olive oil, and a hint of lemon. Bon appétit. Hope like hell it’ll cool off a little by then.”
My heart skips a beat as I turn, wondering why his voice is louder.
Oh, right. He’s standing in the doorway.
Damn, he’s hot.
The kinda good-looking that renders you speechless when you’re trying to think up more than one way to describe a sexy beast.
I swear, I’m not normally like this.
I don’t get fluttery butterfly crushes on older family men.
But with Grady, I’m not just making a major exception. I think he’s rewriting the book on what makes me melt. Because it’s hard—no, impossible—imagining feelings springing up for any lesser man after this.
“Still over ninety out there,” he tells me, stepping into the laundry room. “Thank fuck I had the AC tuned up last spring. We’re flogging it hard today.”
A faint noise bleeds into the room that makes my ears perk. “What’s that? ATVs again?”
His grin widens, a crescent moon in the thick halo of his beard. “The girls are heading to the short track for a drive before dinner. They’re looking for more flowers to transplant tomorrow.”
Smiling, I press a hand to my forehead, close my eyes, and pretend I’m about to faint. “Oh, Lord, what have I started?”
Laughter fills the room as he catches me around the waist, holding me up.
Not quite what I’d been after, but I’m not complaining at the result.
Those massive hands on my hips feel good. Firm reminders it wouldn’t take more than a flick of his wrists to wind up tossed over his shoulder, and carried off to—
“It’s all your fault, you know,” he growls in my ear.
Keeping my eyes closed, I say, “Yeah. I sorta guessed it was.”
“This is your fault, too.”
My eyes snap open to ask what, but before I can get out a single syllable, I’m silenced.
His thick lips collide with mine like a meteor strike.
Holy hell.
The contact is electric, jolting, and so welcome it shreds what little control I’d gotten back earlier. When you’re kissing Grady McKnight, it’s the kind of thing that demands all of you, and I’m so down to give up everything.
Before I can stop myself, I react with a shuddering gasp, my arms looped around his strong neck.
I hold on for dear life.
Unlike a minute ago, I’m worried I actually will faint from the sultry, all-consuming need lashing through me.
Every last bit of me shuts down except what’s able to feel, to taste, to savor this man.
Grady isn’t nearly so paralyzed.
Lucky me.
