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She thought of his words and frowned. I’m an idiot. I should have worn a pair of stinky old track pants and my stupid, still wet, bunny slippers.
[i]I shouldn’t have agreed to this at all.[i] Except that she had and now that he was here there was no way she was getting out of it.
The doorbell rang and she jumped, her gaze returning to the clock once more. She had three minutes and damned if she was going to go down until it was seven o’clock on the nose.
She stood back and smoothed the blue boat neck sweater she’d borrowed from Bobbi’s closet, down over her hips. It left her shoulders bare and fit her curves perfectly. Paired with skinny jeans and funky black shoes—again courtesy of her sister’s closet—she thought that maybe she’d gone a bit overboard.
It’s not like she was looking to get laid.
Holy hell, where had that thought come from? She swallowed. She gave herself a mental shake, but…was she?
No. Not a chance because that would be a bad idea.
Wouldn’t it?
A long shuddering breath escaped her lips and she glanced in the mirror once last time, aware of the flush that touched her cheeks and the energy that thrummed in her chest. She was on edge and if she didn’t know better, [i]aroused[i].
Her hands fell from her cheeks, down to where her nipples strained against the soft cashmere sweater. Hello. She stifled a groan and froze when her grandfather yelled up the stairs.
“Billie, there’s a young man here for you.”
“Okay,” she croaked.
Crap. There was no way she could waltz downstairs with the unmistakable nipple salute that was out there, front and center. No way in hell. Logan would never let her live it down.
Her eyes fell on the leather jacket slung across her bed. It was old and out of fashion, but it would be enough to at least hide the evidence. She scooped it up, grabbed her purse from the dresser and left her bedroom.
She paused at the top of the stairs, listening to the low murmur of Logan and Herschel’s voices. They were chatting about the NHL standings. Her grandfather was a Canadiens fan, while Logan was all about the Flyers’ Giroux and Hartnell. She wrinkled her nose. The Rangers was her team.
With the leather jacket held firmly in front of her chest, she descended the stairs and didn’t stop until she was on the bottom step.
Logan Forest looked good enough to eat. No, he looked better than that. He looked so damn good that for a moment she wasn’t aware of anything but him.
His hair was damp, as if he wasn’t long from the shower and he hadn’t shaved, the shadow along his jaw and chin giving him the kind of dangerous air he so didn’t need.
And Billie was a sucker for the rough look.
He wore faded jeans, the kind that looked as if he’d had them for years, but she was willing to bet they cost a small fortune. Didn’t matter. Either way they fit his long legs perfectly. A crisp white collar peeked out from beneath a thick, steel-gray, cable knit sweater and it did nothing but enhance his wide shoulders.
He was a walking billboard for sex.
“Who’s there?”
Billie’s gaze swung from Logan to her father, who had been in the family room. He was clad in green and white striped pajamas and a matching bathrobe. In one hand he held a newspaper and the other, his reading glasses.
“Dad, this is—”
“I’m not stupid, Billie-Jo. I know who this is,” he interrupted sharply. Trent Barker took another step, and thrust out his chin. “Your Max’s son.”
“Yes, sir.” Logan answered respectfully.
“You the oldest?”
“No, that would be Travis. I’m Logan.”
Billie held her breath. Bobbi had warned her that along with their father’s memory issues, there were mood swings to deal with. Not only was he agitated at times, he became confrontational. Angry. Hard to deal with. She hadn’t seen this side to him yet and it made her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and sad.
“You had your hands all over my daughter the other day.”
