“Already planning on it.” I lean over to look at the photo. I’m head to toe muddy, grinning like a fool, never looked happier in my life. “She’ll have it framed and hung on the wall, I’m sure. Right between my debutante portrait and the oil painting of Remington Sherwood the Third.”
“I say we put it on the wall here at home,” he says.
Home.Like it’s truly ours. Like we’re a real couple that would have pictures of ourselves strewn around the house.
Except in less than a year, I won’t be living here anymore. It seems silly to have pictures of us all over the place. Silly, and painful.
“Not sure there’s room for it,” I say with a crooked smile.
I swing my leg over to dismount and my ankle twinges, sharp and sudden enough that I hiss.
Slade is beside me before I’ve finished the sound.
“Don’t put weight on it,” he says simply, and scoops me up.
Both arms, one under my knees and one at my back, like I weigh nothing, like this is just the obvious solution to everything. I definitely don’t weigh nothing, but he carries me like I’m made of feathers.
“Your boots,” I say, as he heads for the door.
“What about them?”
“You’re going to track mud through the house.”
“I’ll clean it.”
I give him puppy dog eyes. “But I just put down that rug, honey. It’s an antique.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I choose to interpret as agreement and somehow, still holding me, manages to toe off both boots on the porch. It takes some doing. I press my lips together, hiding my laughter.
He carries me over the threshold. Like a husband does his bride. The house is warm and smells like cinnamon from the coffee cake I made this morning. He kicks the door shut behind us and keeps walking.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He doesn’t break stride.
“Shower,” he says.
My breath hitches.
“Together?” I ask.
He looks down at me. Something in his eyes that makes my belly swoop.
“We’re both covered in mud,” he says.
Which is not a no.
My heart rate picks up as he carries me down the hall. He sets me down just inside the bathroom and we look at our reflection in the mirror simultaneously. We look like hell, muddy and hair mussed, but Slade makes it sexy.
“Strip,” he orders.
One word and my whole nervous system lights up.
We reach for our own clothes at the same time. Jackets first, dropped without discussion. Then flannels. His eyes are on me as he undresses and mine are on him. There’s no pretending we’re not openly admiring each other. We’re past that.
The muddy clothes hit the tile in wet heaps.
He reaches back and grabs the neck of his thermal, pulling it off.
