“You first.”
She had his attention now. His mouth worked for several beats before he expelled all the air from his lungs in a rush.
Who was this brazen chit demanding he strip off his clothes for her? Well, not forherprecisely; more accurately, it would be for him to not die of exposure, but still. Perhaps she could show him some of the concern he constantly showered on her.
It made her uncomfortable, frankly, the way he would deliver sandwiches and cups of tea to her worktable, or how he responded to her snarky remarks with a soft smile and a self-deprecating retort, as though he saw past her defensive exterior to the vulnerable heart of her. He made her want to be softer, and the very notion ofsoftnessmade her queasy.
She raised one brow.
His eyes searched hers as his fingers traveled to the buttons of his waistcoat. After it and his collar joined his torn trousers on the floor, he paused to look at her, nodding his chin. “Get on with it, then. You’re still shivering.”
The joke was on him; her body burned under his attention, so much that she might actually be steaming. She took her time with the fastenings at her cuffs and down the front of her shirtwaist, and had almost finished releasing them all when he shucked his shirt and tossed it down.
Miss Sarah Wilton suddenly became a woman of faith, for nothing but an act of God could be responsible for what she saw before her. “You work on Wall Street, don’t you?”
His jaw ticked, but he nodded with careful precision.
“Do you carry around sacks of money and toss them to people all day? Juggle gold bars in the air for fun?”
A flush climbed across his chest—quite an accomplishment, given the breadth of it—and up his neck, and he ran an absent finger down his sternum. “Uh, no, but I… exercise.”
“By pulling trees from the ground? Tossing axes?”
His brows knit together. “Why are you asking? Do you think I am a lumberjack in my spare time?”
“No, but you—”
Oh dear. Sadie had made a terrible mistake.
She’d let her eyes travel the length of that broad chest, tracking the trail of ruddy hair to where it darkened at his waistband, to his—
Apparently, the man was indeed carrying around a tree trunk all day.
“Sadie.” Hearing her name broke her from her perusal of his body, and her gaze darted to meet his eyes again. Now he had the raised brow, and the bemused tick of his mouth indicated he hadn’t missed her appraisal—and approval—of his form. “You seem to be stuck.”
She’d stopped halfway through the act of removing her shirt, and now the garment hung partially off one arm. Suppressing a wince, she turned to tug off the offending fabric and toss it away. She released the laces of her corset, then let it fall to her feet, kicking it aside as she sucked in her first full breath in hours.
She kept her eyes trained on the fire, its heat matching the burning in her cheeks. The idea of facing Garrett in this state—in nothing but her bloomers and chemise—terrified her. She was unsure what frightened her more, seeing him ignore she was indeed awoman, or witnessing the flare of heat in his eyes that she’d observed earlier and only confused her more. He may appreciate the sight of her figure, make her feel like the most beautiful woman in the room, but did he not have that effect on every lady? She’d thought she was special until she walked into that restaurant. She was one of many to receive his attention, and that knowledge made a fist tighten around her throat.
“Sadie, you’re still shivering.”
She said nothing, not trusting her voice, and continued to stare at the fire. It was foolish to hold a place in her heart for this man. He knew that she’d refused every man who expressed interest, even rejecting a proposal of marriage, and she remained unattached. While his body had responded to her proximity, the evidence of his arousal had embarrassed him, as though he was ashamed of any sort of desire for her. He’d always maintained his air of detachment, keeping a respectful distance, even referring to her as his secretary.
She was no man’s secretary, although once she had a fabulous dream about taking a letter for him before he got to his knees and lifted her skirt—
A weight settled on her chest, and her breath caught in her throat as she turned. Garrett’s eyes were soft as he spread a quilt over her shoulders, then pulled it closed around her front. He already had one wrapped around him like a cloak. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “I’m sorry, Sadie. I made you uncomfortable, and—”
“You didn’t.” At least not in the way he meant. “You were trying to take care of me.”
How long had it been since someone cared for her? Her mother had been devastated when she refused to conform to New York society’s rules as her sisters had before her. Her father had been more than happy to set her up with funds so she could leave the family home and stop calling attention to them for her “radical proclivities.” Being absent from their lives was a blessing, and while she was grateful for her freedom, she could never shake the fear that she’d always be easy to leave behind.
But Miss Sarah Wilton,formerlyof the Upper West Side, was an independent, capable woman who never needed a man to provide, or care, for her.
Except now, when her financier-turned-lumberjack was wrapping her in a quilt and nudging her towards a stack of pillows by the fire. A low whimper broke in her chest, and Garrett looked like he might break into tears himself.
“Dammit, Sadie,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I wasn’t scared. I’m fine.” The quilt muffled her words, and he chuckled.
