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“Of a fictional woman you don’t live with? Oh please.” I rolled my eyes.
“I live at the clubhouse. I don’t have a lot of shit. I don’t have a family.” He shrugged. “It works.”
“Now, was that so hard?” I asked, trying to stem a smile from appearing across my lips.
He rose from his spot on the stairs and neatly placed his boots by the front door. “You gonna show me the place?”
I gave him a brief tour of downstairs with the living room, kitchen, and bathroom.
“Help yourself to anything in the fridge. I should be out of the shower before your prospect arrives.”
He groaned.
“What?”
“Now I’m gonna think about you in the shower. Naked. Wet. Are you sure you don’t need someone to wash your back?”
“I have a loofa,” I said, even though I felt my cheeks flush with the idea of wet, naked Bones; water sluicing down his muscled chest…
Clearing my throat, I reached over and grabbed the remote off the coffee table. “Entertain yourself.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m a lot of fun.”
“Yeah? Not sure I believe you, Duchess.”
Smiling, I headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
It wasn’t until I was alone in the shower, halfway through conditioning my hair that I moaned in embarrassment. The man had seen me cry. Not just cry, but ugly cry. I’d completely fallen apart and I’d had no ability to stop it.
But he hadn’t given me any grief over it. On the contrary, he’d comforted me while I cried out my storm.
My hands shook when I lathered my body with soap.
I could’ve died today.
I could’ve died today, but I didn’t.
Bones was waiting on a prospect to come get him and then I’d be alone. Alone in this big house with nothing but my thoughts.
I got out of the shower and quickly threw on a pair of leggings and a comfortable oversized Notre Dame sweatshirt.
My feet were cold, so I put on a pair of thick wool socks before tying up my hair into a damp knot and padding downstairs into the living room. Bones had made himself comfortable, his feet up on the recliner. He’d removed his leather cut and slung it over the back of the couch.
“Hey,” he greeted, pulling his eyes away from the TV to look at me. His gaze started at my head and slowly inched down.
I swallowed. “Hey.”
“Feel better?”
I nodded and took a seat on the couch. I grabbed the blanket folded in the corner and flung it over me.
“You look dazed,” he said, not taking his eyes off me.
“I feel like I’ve been beat to hell.” I grimaced. “My body hurts.”
My soul hurts.
