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The fact that I was wearing Dallas’s clothes wasn’t lost on me, but I tried not to think too much about it. Especially not the part where I was currently going commando in a pair of pants that Dallas could have quite possibly been commando in at one time or another.
Once I was dressed, I forced myself to leave the safety of the bathroom. I needed to get my clothes and get the hell out of there. My body ached, my pride was in tatters, and I was so physically exhausted that I was afraid if I sat down even for a minute, I’d never get up again. As it was, I’d probably end up sleeping in my car in the driveway once I got home, because I doubted my protesting muscles would work long enough to get me out of the car and into the house.
As I made my way toward the stairs, I caught sight of several closed doors along the hall, presumably bedrooms. The only open door was for the bedroom at the end of the hallway, and all I could see was a large bed with a brown comforter on it. As tempting as it would have been to sneak a peek at Dallas’s bedroom, I ignored the urge and hurried down the stairs. I slowed my step after noticing the pictures on the wall. There weren’t many of them, and while most were of more animals, including several of Dallas’s wolf-dog as a puppy, one picture in particular caught my attention. It was of Dallas and his older brother, Maddox. Maddox was wearing some kind of formal military uniform and he had his arm around Dallas. I knew Dallas had to be around eighteen at the time the picture was taken, which had me guessing it was for Maddox’s graduation from West Point. I remembered my mother’s story about how Maddox had told Dallas he should have been the one who’d died in the accident. I couldn’t correlate the hatred that it would take to make that kind of statement with the picture I was looking at.
A creaking sound from downstairs had me hurrying past the picture. My bare feet padded along the cold hardwood floors as I made my way toward the sound of water running. I found Dallas in the kitchen. His back was to me and I could see he was filling a pot with water.
I cleared my throat and felt my stomach jump when he looked over his shoulder at me.
God, he really was beautiful.
Outside, he’d been wearing the same coveralls I’d seen him wearing the day I’d brought the baby raccoon to him – an outfit that made sense now, considering how filthy I’d gotten working around the animals – but now he was wearing a pair of jeans and a soft-looking knit sweater that hugged his broad upper body. It looked like he’d made use of a shower too, because his hair was damp. But I was surprised to see he was still wearing the ratty-looking bandana around his neck. After a moment of contemplation, I realized why it was there and felt a stir of pity for him that he felt the need to hide his scars.
“Um, I’ll just grab my clothes and go,” I said as I scanned the kitchen. It was surprisingly modern considering how old the farmhouse had appeared from the outside.
Dallas turned, full pot in hand, and motioned with his chin toward the kitchen island, which had a couple of stools on one side.
“No, I shouldn’t,” I said. “I need to get home.”
Dallas put the pot on the stove and got it going, then scratched something out on a pad of paper sitting on the island. He pushed it in my direction before returning to the stove.
Your clothes and shoes were a mess. They’re in the washing machine. Cooking spaghetti. Stay.
That last word had my insides dancing with butterflies.
“Um, I don’t want to be any trouble,” I said as my eyes automatically drifted to Dallas’s ass as he moved around the kitchen. Despite the pronounced limp that seemed worse now than it had earlier in the day, he still moved gracefully as he pulled more cookware from the cabinet next to the stove.
Dallas turned around again and pointed to the note.
To that one word on the note.
Stay.
His eyes held mine this time, and I found myself nodding. I’d never hear the end of it from my mother, but I found myself moving to sit on one of the stools anyway.
I watched Dallas work. The forced silence should have been awkward, but there was a strange comfort in it instead.
Dallas moved to the refrigerator and then opened it. He began holding up drink choices for me. “Beer,” I said when he was done. “Thank you.”
He twisted off the cap and handed it to me, then grabbed one for himself.
