I should stop right there, but I can’t. “Yep.”
“And how would you describe it?”
“It’s like…” I pause, running a hand along the back of my neck. “God, I don’t even know how to say it without sounding like a creeper.”
She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Try me.”
I glance over at her, then up at the stars. “You smell like … flowers, but not soft ones. Something more inspired. Jasmine, maybe?”
She tilts her head, lips twitching. “Fancy nose you got there, Cowboy Ken.”
“Don’t sass. I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks.” I look down, then say quieter, “There’s this intensity to it. Not sugary. It’s warm and spicy. Exotic.”
“Exotic?” she echoes, suddenly flustered.
I nod. “Oh yeah.”
When I finally meet her gaze again, her cheeks are that exact shade of pink that makes it hard to stay composed around her.
“Wow,” she says, clearing her throat. “I’m flattered. Just when I think you can’t surprise me … And for the record, you don’t sound like a creep at all. You sound … weirdly poetic.”
My gaze turns unfocused, locked on the mouth that said “poetic.” All I can think about is carrying her back to bed and kissing my way down every inch she’d let me.
What is wrong with me?
“Um, you okay over there?” she asks.
“Not even a little.”
“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” She stands and offers to take the glass from my hand.
“Probably not, but it’s worth a shot.”
I hold onto her arm to steady myself as I rise. She helps me back into the room and sits me down in the chair. She starts to straighten the bed but stops when her hand skims the sheets.
“Your sheets are soaked. You must have been on fire. Do you have a spare set?”
I rub my temples. “Roxanne, you don’t?—”
“Well, do you?”
“Probably in the linen closet.”
She moves around the room with this quiet determination, her blond hair falling loose over her shoulders. She’s barefoot, in soft gray pajama pants and a loose shirt that hangs off one shoulder.
I realize I’m getting to see her in another, truer form, and she looks absolutely beautiful. It’s not the kind of beauty that takes effort, and it’s the kind that unravels you when you’re not expecting it. The kind you want to wake up next to.
Damn.
I’ve seen her dressed up, hair tamed, mouth painted the exact shade of danger, and yeah, she is the kind of woman that turns heads. But this? This intimate version of her? This is worse because there is no defense against this.
I can’t remember the last time a woman cared for me like this. Roxanne changes my bed sheets, fluffs my pillows, and refills my water glass. She pats the bed, crosses the room, and holds out her hand.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” she says with a comforting smile. “Is there a book you want from the library?”
“You’ve already done too much for me. Let me at least take you back to the lodge.”
“You need some rest, and I’ve got a little more work to do.”
