Page 10

He flashes me another killer smile and disappears up the stairs. I can hear Emmett moving around in the kitchen, washing up. Beau skulks past me and slips up the stairs without making an ounce of eye contact. I’m not sure what to make of him.

Putting him out of my mind, I dig the pajamas out of my bag, and immediately cringe. This is more negligee than pajama. It was supposed to be my sexy honeymoon nightie, all sheer lace and satin ties. Oh, well. It’s all I have, so it’ll have to do.

I grab my toiletry bag along with the nightie. There’s no reason to skip my skin care routine just because my life came crashing down around my ears. No, I correct myself. I pulled my own life down around my ears. This was my doing.

I take my time in the bathroom, grounding myself and soothing my anxiety by going through my habitual routine. Five steps, five products, five minutes… more or less. Probably more, honestly. After lotioning myself slippery, I slide into the little negligee. It barely reaches the middle of my thighs and the neckline is plunging, but the couch is right there. I’ll be up early and dressed in real clothes before anybody catches me wearing this.

I open the door, bag in one hand and clothes in the other, and turn the corner into the hallway, only to immediately stop. Beau is standing there and I nearly run him over. I want to cover myself, but my hands are full… and I’m not the only one wearing less than a full outfit.

Beau is shirtless. He’s wearing gray sweatpants slung low on his defined hips. Tattoos scrawl across the muscles on his torso and chest, and up and down both of his toned, muscular arms. There are so many tattoos. So many muscles. I look up at his eyes.

His eyes are dragging down my skimpy outfit, glaring at me like I’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong. My knees knock together as I try to make myself smaller, try to fit a little better into my skimpy clothes. His jaw tightens and his glare meets my eyes.

“Sorry,” I breathe. “Excuse me.” I slip around him, trying not to touch him, and run to the living room. I hear the bathroom door shut behind me and curse myself for taking so long in there. Of course the guys would need the bathroom before bed.

Quickly, before any other encounters can occur, I slip between the blankets on the couch. The blanket beneath me is a little scratchy, and the two above me aren’t exactly Egyptian cotton. The back of the couch is rough against my skin. I wriggle in my rugged cocoon, trying to find a comfortable position.

After a moment, it’s pretty clear that comfort isn’t going to come easily, and it’s not just because of the couch and blankets. The discomfort is coming from inside. I close my eyes and open them immediately as the feeling of free-fall takes me. Deliberately slowing my breathing, I fight the panic that’s bubbling up from inside.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I fall asleep.

7

EMMETT

It’s barely light outside when I wake up to the sound of soft, feminine grunts coming from downstairs. My body reacts to the sound, just a twitch, but it’s enough to unsettle me. The sounds aren’t precisely sexual, only reminiscent of sexuality, and that’s enough to get me going.

I don’t like that.

I haven’t had sex in years. Haven’t wanted it. Sex requires interacting with people, being vulnerable with a woman, and I would rather not. The only people I’m comfortable with are the two who live with me.

Before the twins came to live with me, I lived alone. It’s what I prefer. Having the boys up here with me doesn’t bother me… in fact, I appreciate them and enjoy their company… but having that damn woman downstairs does. She’s still grunting. I’d better go see what she’s up to.

I stretch out naked in my king-sized bed, reluctant to leave the warm embrace of the blanket, comforter, and fur throw. I’d rather just let her finish whatever it is she’s doing, but I don’t like not knowing what that is.

This is my grandfather’s cabin. Mine now, but always his. I can’t have somebody running around rearranging furniture or whatever it is she’s doing. Sighing, I get out of bed and quickly throw on some clothes against the winter chill. It’s warmer up here than it could be, but we keep costs down with good clothes and thick blankets.

It’s more practical that way.

I’m in my thick socks, long underwear, jeans, and flannel and she’s still making noise. Can’t anybody else hear her? I don’t actually mind being the one to handle problems. It’s just that I would rather handle structural problems with the cabin than interpersonal problems with some girl.

I pad down the stairs, scrubbing a hand through my beard. I really don’t want to deal with this. Halfway down, I stop. She’s at the door in a pair of lightweight, flowy teal pants and a light cardigan. She’s wearing a pair of bedroom slippers. Not exactly snow-worthy attire, but here she is, trying to get the damn door open.

She’s got her bags on the floor next to her. She’s left the blankets folded up on the couch. Nice touch, I suppose. Better than leaving a mess behind. Still, she’s clearly trying to sneak off without alerting any of us. I can see how hard she’s working to open the door, how hard she’s trying to stay quiet.

There’s a small sheen of sweat on her brow. If she goes out sweating like that, dressed like that, she’ll have hypothermia before she ever makes it to her car, which she won’t be able to find, anyway.

Forcibly ignoring what the grunting, sweating, and soft feminine figure are trying to do to me, I take the last few steps down the stairs a little more loudly. She doesn’t notice.

Survival skills of a pet gerbil.

“It’s probably snowed closed,” I tell her.

She jumps at my voice, startling like a rabbit. I’ve seen that look before on a lot of other faces. That look says, busted. So, yes. She was definitely trying to sneak off without alerting us. Nice try.

Her eyes go wide as my words finally land with her. She swallows hard and wrings her little hands over her bare midriff. She’s wearing some kind of half shirt under the cardigan. I take it back. A gerbil has fur. She has the survival skills of a boiled potato.

“What do you mean, snowed closed?”