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Raith lived in a small, two-bedroom bungalow-style house.
As Willow followed him through his back door, her eyes immediately set about inspecting her surroundings, surprised he lived in such a tiny place. She knew cops didn't make as much as lawyers, but this was just little.
Size didn't seem to matter, however. As soon as she entered his kitchen, she suddenly felt completely safe. It smelled exactly like Raith. Willow drew in a deep breath and glanced at him.
He watched her from hooded blue eyes as he set her luggage on the table. "It's not much, but—"
"I like it," she said and smiled as she rubbed her hands over her arms. "It's comfy."
He lifted a brow, but didn't comment. "The bedroom's this way."
"I can sleep on the hide-away," she told him, stalling to keep from going to his room and seeing the bed he slept on every night.
"I don't have a hide-away."
"Then I'll sleep on the couch."
His jaw bunched. "You didn't survive a murder attempt just to sleep on a damn lumpy old couch."
Her chin lifted. "Well, I'm not sleeping with you."
"It's a queen size bed," he roared. "I think we can both fit on it just fine. It's not like you've contracted any rare disabling disease from sleeping next to me before."
"No," she agreed. "I only got pregnant."
He growled out a curse, threw his hands in the air and started to march from the room. But he no sooner reached the doorway, when he stopped in his tracks and swung back around.
"I'll sleep on the goddamn couch, okay?" When she didn't thank him soon enough, he huffed. "I didn't bring you here so I could get laid, you know. And I didn't do it so we could fight either."
"Then why did you?"
He opened his mouth, but the words didn't come. "The bedroom's this way," he mumbled and started out of the kitchen. Willow stared after him with wide eyes, wishing he'd just tell her what he really wanted to say.
~ * ~
She had to be the most stubborn woman on the entire planet.
Raith paced his living room as Willow stalled in the single bathroom, getting ready for bed. Her mother had neglected to pack anything she could sleep in, so he'd loaned her one of his oversized t-shirts.
As he stalked from one end of the floor to the other, he cursed her from head to toe. The frustrating female. Couldn't she see he only wanted to make sure she was all right? He had to make sure she was okay. His very sanity depended on it.
The bathroom door opened. He stopped and lifted his face. She paused in the doorway, wearing a t-shirt that came nearly to her knees.
"Do you need anything before you go to sleep?" He growled the question with ill-concealed impatience.
She shook her head. "No. Thanks."
"Good night then."
"Night."
She moved toward his bedroom and shut the door behind her after entering. He went back to pacing. Allowing a good half hour to pass, he stayed in the living room like a good gentleman. Then he couldn't take it any longer.
He pushed inside, braced for her to kick him right back out. But she was already sound asleep. He stopped at the foot of the bed. The light from the living room spilled over her sleeping form.
God, she was so precious to him. And she could've been killed tonight. The relief finally came as he drew closer and was able to examine her the way he'd been aching to all night.
Remembering what a heavy sleeper she was, he slowly pulled his sheets off her, marveled a moment over the picture she made in his bed, and then went to work, inspecting her for bruises, marks, or scratches. He found a few on her arms, probably received when she'd pushed the cabinet in front of her bathroom door.
