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“Excuse the mess.” He pushed open the front door. “I haven’t done much cleaning up since I got here.”
Folding her arms, she edged into the room, turning her head from side to side. “It’s not too bad.”
“Yeah, biker chic.” He strode to the hallway and plucked a clean towel from the stack in the cupboard. Then he pushed open the bathroom door and hung the towel over the rack. “Do you want a washcloth?”
She came up behind him, framed by the bathroom door. “No, as long as you have some shampoo in there.”
“Generic.”
“I’m not picky.” She tugged at the hem of the still-damp T-shirt.
He made a gun with his fingers, pointing at her. “I can get you a clean T-shirt, maybe a pair of sweats. Anything else of mine you’d be swimming in it.”
“A T-shirt’s fine.”
“Okay, then. I’ll leave you to it.” They did a little dance as he squeezed past her at the door. She did smell smoky...but still sweet.
He closed the door and as she cranked on the shower, he headed for the bedroom. She’d have to sleep in the bedroom he’d been occupying. The other bedroom still had a bunch of junk in it and no sheets on the bed. At least he’d washed his sheets two days ago.
He’d crash on the couch in the living room. He didn’t sleep much, anyway.
His gaze darted around the room, making sure he hadn’t left anything embarrassing out in the open. He smoothed a hand over the bedspread and fluffed the pillow as if he was a preparing a hotel bed for a guest.
He pawed through the T-shirts hanging in his closet and grabbed an extra-long black one so she wouldn’t suspect him of wanting to see any more of her body—which is exactly what he did want.
He shook out the shirt and placed it on the bed. Leaving the bedroom door open, he grabbed a blanket from the closet and dumped it onto the couch.
“Jim?”
“Yeah?” He looked down the short hall.
She’d poked her towel-wrapped head out of the bathroom door. “Do you have that T-shirt?”
“Comin’ right up.” He returned to the bedroom and snatched the shirt from the bed. He tapped on the bathroom door. “Got it.”
She stuck her hand out the door. “Thanks. Can I use the hair dryer in here?”
“Yeah, of course, if it still works. It was my old man’s.” He backed up from the door. “You can sleep in the room across the hall. Bed’s all ready for you.”
The roar of the hair dryer drowned out his words, and he shrugged.
He sat on the edge of the couch and pulled off his boots and then his socks. Had he really been at the sheriff’s station tonight suspected of murdering Rusty? It seemed like a hundred years ago.
Why had someone set that fire? And why not set the whole cabin on fire with Scarlett in it? The singed hair on his arms stood up. He had to convince her to go back to San Francisco, even if that meant moving back in with her ex-boyfriend.
He took off his flannel shirt and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He smelled like smoke, too. He yanked off his jeans and tossed everything in a pile near the fireplace.
As he shook out the blanket, Scarlett exclaimed behind him, “Oh, sorry.”
He turned, wearing only his boxers, raising his eyebrows. “Do you need something?”
“I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to go.” She plucked at the neckline of the shirt, which was so baggy it slid off one of her shoulders, dipping to expose the swell of her breast.
What made him think she’d look any less sexy in an oversize T-shirt than a tighter one?
Her gaze wandered over his body, and his flesh prickled with heat.
“I left the bedroom door open for you. The other room isn’t habitable.”
“I can sleep here on the couch. I don’t want to kick you out of your bed.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve spent a few nights on this couch already.” He pointed to the TV in the corner. “Sometimes I just fall asleep in front of the TV.”
“Sounds like insomnia to me.”
“The least of my current troubles.”
She sucked in a breath and reached forward so quickly he couldn’t avoid her touch, didn’t want to avoid her touch.
