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She pressed in closer, as if she craved the feel of his body. “And tomorrow, I think we should tell Liam.”
Eric hesitated. Earlier, in the kitchen, she hadn’t given him a chance to explain the very real consequences of the DOF’s investigation. They had accused the person calling the shots on the White Rock job site of running chainsaws after the restricted hours. Liam. Georgia’s brother had been on-site harvesting those trees. Liam had been aware of the fire restrictions and told Eric he planned to run the equipment until one in the afternoon. But if he’d gone over, even by a few minutes . . .
Moore Timber could afford the fine. He kept a reserve for such occasions because forest fires were always a threat. But the financial cost was only one piece of the puzzle. If the DOF determined they’d violated the fire precautions, Eric would be forced to let Liam go. It didn’t matter that he was Eric’s best friend. Georgia’s brother couldn’t harvest trees for Moore Timber if he broke the rules. Not if his actions when out in the field threatened lives.
Georgia slipped out of his grasp as they entered the house. He knew he should tell her about Liam and the investigation. But not now. Tonight had been hard on her, telling him about her time in Afghanistan. He didn’t want her worrying about her brother.
“We’ll tell him soon,” he promised.
Eric hoped like hell the DOF investigators were wrong. But until he knew for certain what happened the day the fire started, he couldn’t tell Liam about his relationship with Georgia. Eric couldn’t face telling his best friend that he’d violated his trust and slept with his sister, and then fire him.
Chapter Thirteen
GEORGIA STEPPED INTO Eric’s room and closed the door, blocking out the rest of the world. She’d been here before, standing in front of his bed wrapped in a towel, her body wound tight with need. But tonight, she was going after what she wanted, knowing there was no end in sight.
“Eric, look at me.”
He set the monitor on the bedside table and turned to her. Wearing a towel like some men wore kilts, low around his hips, highlighting the sculpted path down his stomach to what lie below, Eric stood with his feet apart and planted firmly on the floor. His hands moved to his waist as he watched and waited, following her orders.
“Watch my hands.” Her fingers shaking, she tugged at her towel. It fell to the floor, pooling at her feet. Her fingers brushed her breasts, drawing soft, teasing circles.
“Georgia,” he growled. He closed the space between them, tossing his towel aside, pulling her into his arms, and holding her tight against him.
“I thought you liked to watch,” she teased.
“Not tonight. I need to touch you.” He skimmed her low back, up her waist, and around to her front. He palmed her breasts, his hands caught between them. “But Christ, you’re still shaking. You’re cold.”
She reached for him, holding him close. “Warm me up.”
“I will.” His hands moved to her shoulders while every part of her screamed, touch me lower. “But first, a hot shower.”
He took her hand and led her into the attached master bath. He pulled a dry towel from the chrome bar with his free hand and draped it around her shoulders. He turned to the walk-in shower, opened the glass door, and adjusted the knobs. “It will take just a second to warm up.”
Georgia looked around the room. When stationed overseas, she’d dreamed about having this much personal space. Not to bathe, but to live and sleep. It was easy to forget sometimes how
far Eric had moved from the life they’d lived growing up. He’d always been a step above her on the economic scale, but she’d figured her happy home life with two loving, still-married-to-each-other parents evened the score. Or at least it had back then.
She ran her hand over the marble counter, devoid of clutter except for his razor and, at the far edge, a stack of magazines with a book on top. She scanned the title. Soldiers with PTSD: A Case Study.
She turned and found Eric an arm’s length away, watching her, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Attempting to figure me out?” She tried for a light and playful tone—and failed. The more she thought about Eric reading this book, the more she wanted to scream. She held the towel tight, as if it could keep her cries bottled inside.
“Liam gave it to me,” he admitted without looking away.
“Have you read it?”
He held up his hands, palms out in a universal sign of surrender. “I want to understand, Georgia.”
She looked down at the cover. Four different pictures, all men in dress uniform, stared back at her. “I don’t think it is that simple. I have a hard time believing there is a textbook answer to how people cope with war. Everyone who serves and returns home has their own story and faces their own, very personal challenges.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”
“Good.” She released her white-knuckle grip on the towel, but didn’t let it fall away.
“Georgia, for what it is worth, I’m sorry.”
Steam from the shower filled the room, warming her skin. But the sincerity she saw in his blue eyes sparked a feeling of heat and need deep inside. He cared. It was there in his expression, in his actions. “For reading a book? You don’t have to apologize for that.”
