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“That’s it,” Lyric declared. “We’re going back to my place.”
His head swiveled, and he stared at her with wide eyes. “Say what?”
She laughed. “So I can wrap some ice around your sore ribs, silly.” As if she’d really hit on him when he was injured. “And don’t tell me your ribs don’t hurt. I can see right through you.”
“Fine.” His shoulders slumped. “They’re killing me.”
“I thought so.” The man wasn’t as good at pretending as he thought he was. “I have ice wraps in the freezer for when I overdo it at yoga. They work wonders on soreness and bruising.” Hopefully, he hadn’t cracked any of the bones.
“A little ice might be good,” Thatch said begrudgingly. “I have a hard time seeing you get hurt doing yoga. You’re pretty good at it.”
“It happens less frequently now, but yeah.” During the rest of the drive to her house, she entertained him with the story about the time she was doing a headstand and toppled over, landing on her coffee table.
When they walked through her front door, Amos, her faithful husky, was there to greet them. The dog growled at Thatch, as usual, letting the man know it was his job to protect Lyric. But all it took was one scratch behind the ear, and Amos was leaning into Thatch’s leg, practically purring.
“All right, boy. Go easy on him. He’s injured, after all.” She nudged the dog away and led Thatch into the kitchen.
“Not necessarilyinjured,” he clarified. “It’s only a bruise.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. Lyric pointed to a kitchen chair. “Take a seat. And you need to lose the shirt.”
His jaw dropped. “Usually, a woman offers me a drink before she asks me to start stripping.”
“Stop being cute, Hearst.” Lyric reached into the freezer and found the elastic bandages. Nice and frozen.
“I’m not trying to be cute,” the man muttered, peeling off his shirt with a grimace. “Trust me. No man ever wants to be calledcute.”
Yes,cutedidn’t really fit Thatch. Typically, she liked to downplay his overall sex appeal, but that proved to be more of a challenge when he was shirtless. Her gaze spent a little too much time appreciating the washboard abs, broad chest, and sinewy biceps before he cleared his throat. “Would you like me to getyoua drink?” Amusement glinted off his grin.
“No.” She added an eye roll for good measure. “I was trying to figure out the best way to wrap you.” Little white lies never hurt anyone. “I’ve never actually had to wrap my ribs.”
Amos wandered between them, whining and nudging Thatch’s hand with his nose. “I know, boy. It’s gonna hurt.”
“You might have to stand up.” She backed up to keep a healthy distance between them. “And then I’ll wind the bandage around your rib cage.”
“Sure. No problem.” He pushed out of the chair with a pained murmur.
“Okay. Hmm. I’ll just reach this way…” Holding the wrap in one hand, she snaked her arms around him, giving herself as wide a berth as she could, and managed to grab the end of the bandage with her other hand. “There we go.” Her hands were brushing his skin, but so far there hadn’t been any contact with their bodies, whichwas a good thing. “Now I’ll fasten the Velcro, and you should be good.”
“Whoa. That’s cold.” Thatch’s upper body stiffened, all his muscles flexing.
“You can sit back down.” So she wasn’t eye-level with his impressive pecs anymore. “I’ll get you a drink. How about some kombucha tea?”
Wariness worked itself into lines in his forehead. “Kom what?”
Ah, yes. She’d forgotten that his beverage menu consisted only of water, beer, and the occasional soda. “It’s a healthy drink. Full of probiotics.” She made a show of pouring herself a glass from the pitcher in her refrigerator. “Vitamins keep the inside of your body healthy.” He already had a good grasp on the outside of his body.
“I think I’ll stick with water, thanks.” Thatch shifted to the right and then to the left. “I hate to say it, but I think the ice is helping.”
“Because ice takes away inflammation.” She set a water bottle in front of him and took her kombucha to the other side of the table. “You’d better get used to inflammation if you’re going to be a bronc rider. Maybe you should pick up a different passion.”
“Like?” His gaze homed in on her with that intent laser focus that made her all flustered.
Not her! She wasn’t suggestingsheshould be his passion. “Fishing,” she sputtered. Her stepdad had loved fly fishing on the river. “Fishing is a good hobby.”
“I’ll have plenty of time for fishing when I’m sixty,” he deadpanned.
Right. The man was an adrenaline junkie. “Okay. What about mountain climbing? Bungee jumping? Paragliding?Because those activities would probably be just as safe as riding a bronc anyway.” She didn’t know why she was lecturing him. If he wanted to break his body, what business was it of hers? They weren’t really together.
