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Instead, she falls into my chest.
She reels to a halt with her nose pressed to the top button of my waistcoat.
We’re both frozen.
I’m struck once again by that damnable heat radiating off her, especially when people as frail and pale as she is typically have lower body temperatures.
“Um.” She stares at the base of my throat, not at my face. Her own face is redder than a fire engine, bringing out the strawberry blonde undertones in her hair. “Mr. Marshall, I ... I wasn’t going to fall. I just ... I get a little faint.” She swallows hard. “You can let me go anytime.”
“Right.”
Why haven’t I immediately?
Clearing my throat, I release her and retreat down one step, placing us a little closer to eye level. My skin remains oddly warm where her frame was just pressed.
“Sorry,” I say gruffly. “I didn’t mean to be overly familiar.”
“What?” She stares at me. “You show up asking—no, demanding—to marry me, and you’re worried about being overly familiar?”
Her eyes are saucers.
Their hazel is so close to orange it makes me think of a tiger. A tiger cub, maybe.
Only that cub has kitten claws, needle sharp but harmless. Her brows lower fiercely, unexpectedly.
She still has my hand. Her fingers are little slips of warmth gripping at mine with their softness while she pulls me forward with surprising strength.
“Muffins. Now,” she bites off, dragging me into the house.
What the hell is happening?
I nearly trip on the steps.
For a moment, my sheer surprise lets her haul me several steps up into the little cottage and down a hall painted in a soothing deep rose. It’s festooned in wall-mounted planters that drip flowering vines down the walls under the golden glow of tiny sun lamps.
I pull back, freeing my hand from hers and stopping firmly. “I told you I don’t want muffins, Miss Lark. There’s no time.”
She whips back, glaring at me.
“Don’t let Gran hear you! There’s always time for muffins.”
I clench my jaw.
She’s an honest mess right now—her hair sleep mussed, falling out in tendrils around her face. An enormous fuzzy bathrobe in pale peach wraps around her, trailing to the floor over a thin white silk camisole and shorts set. Her feet are stuffed in floppy, oversize fuzzy peach slippers that match the robe.
No, she’s not a tiger kitten after all.
She’s a bunny sent to bring a whole lot of hell into my life.
A small, fuzzy, hell-raising bunny.
If I were still prone to enjoying such things, I might find her cute.
Especially when her pink-tipped nose twitches just like a bunny’s as she plants her hands on her hips.
“Look, if you’re gonna show up on my doorstep with a ring, you’re gonna eat muffins while I try to decide whether or not I’m dreaming.” She closes her eyes, huffing and rubbing her temples. “I have anemia. It’s why I get the crappy migraines. But it also means that until I get proper nutrition, my blood runs thinner than chicken broth and my brain isn’t getting the oxygen it needs. So if you want to explain why you decided to go completely insane in my corner of Seattle and expect me to actually understand, we’re making time for breakfast. Got it?”
Damn, she’s a forceful little thing.
