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Maybe do one better, waking up next to her.
And if she’s waking me up like this with those sweet-as-pie lips and that bonbon body, maybe, just maybe, Libby might be interested in getting used to it, too.
Can a man go from uneasy truce to claiming her as hard as every inch of me wants?
Right now, she’s giving me her skeptical look that says I’m walking a mighty thin line between making her laugh and stepping in horseshit.
“Okay, sleepy. And I’m sure you’ve had a couple dozen ladies verify your snoring habits, huh, cowboy?”
I grin and sit up, plucking the mug out of her hand and setting it back down on the coffee table—before hooking an arm around her waist, reeling her in, daring her to just try that kiss again.
She’ll see what happens.
“Little early to start calling me cowboy. I haven’t done much riding in years.”
“Probably,” she teases, leaning in closer, her nose brushing mine, “because any time you try, you’d get bucked off. Plath’s just a softie,” she says with a wink.
“Just like her owner, honey.” I tilt my head, ghosting my lips across hers, feeling how they curve into a warm smile with every word. “You never really forget how to ride. Just gotta fall off a few times before you remember how to stay on.”
She chuckles, walking two fingers down my chest. “You’d better be talking about horses.”
“And if I’m not?”
“You’re setting yourself up to get laughed at. I don’t know if I’m ready to be your practice ride if you’re just gonna end up on your ass.”
“Sweetheart,” I say, leaning in to nip her lower lip, “if anyone’s bucking and riding around here, it better be you riding me.”
While she gasps, her eyes widening and oh god damn—there’s that perfect rosy blush on her high, gorgeous cheekbones—I tease my lips against hers in a light kiss.
“See? Now we’re even again,” I growl.
Her startled look tells me she’s not quite as experienced as her brash little mouth suggests.
With a huff, she pulls back and shoves the mug of coffee at my chest so hard it comes one tiny splash away from spilling all over me.
“Oh, we’re counting kisses now?” she asks.
“That, and possible third-degree burns.” I can’t stop grinning, though, as I clasp the mug and take a sip. It’s a nice rich brew that shocks the senses awake. “I might owe you another kiss just for this. Damn good coffee.”
“It’s Felicity’s Arabica. She wouldn’t let me buy it until she taught me the right way to make it.” With a snort, Libby pushes herself up from kneeling next to the couch and settles in on the cushions next to my feet, watching me with her arms folded over her stomach. “I haven’t started breakfast yet. Don’t know what you like—and don’t get any notions about me trying to please you, mister. I just don’t like wasting food if you’re gonna refuse to eat my grub with that finicky big city palate.”
I burst out laughing, shifting to sit up and swinging my legs over the side to the floor, stretching them out.
“I’m hardly picky. Hell, I missed good home cooking. Beats paying fifty bucks a plate for an inch-wide square of tuna drizzled in some sauce on a fifteen-inch wide plate.”
She blinks at me. “You’re kidding…right? I’d slug the waiter.”
“Not the waiter’s fault, honey.” I smirk. “You’d be better off punching the chef.”
“Damn right I would.”
There’s something off about her. The more we talk, the more I sense it.
She’s preoccupied, and I can’t help giving her a careful once-over. Can’t see her bruises under her cute pajama top or the little shorts that go with it.
At least Little Miss Stubborn’s actually awake after insisting on going to sleep with a possible concussion. Her lower lip’s still red and plump, even if a lot of the swelling’s gone down, and it doesn’t look as bad as it did last night.
Still.
“Something’s wrong.” I lean forward and set my coffee cup down. “What’s on your mind, Libby?”
She bites at her lip.
With an irritated look, she mutters, “I think we have to go to the cops, Holt.”
I tilt my head. “Last I checked, we were on the same page about involving Langley being a bad idea, what with Gerald Bostrom’s dead body and everything.”
“Yeah, um…that was before somebody, probably Declan’s cronies, broke in here and assaulted me last night.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like it, but this is getting to the point where if I have to shoot someone, I want documentation. Proof I’ve been threatened and assaulted, and anything else is definitely self-defense.”
“Smart,” I say. “But that still leaves a dead body to explain.”
“And the fact that we’re dealing with Sheriff Langley,” she groans, rubbing at her cheek. “He’s not exactly a crack CSI team. Then again…it wouldn’t be hard to keep him around the crime scene and nowhere near Nowhere Lane.”
