Iwoke before dawn, excitement thrumming through my veins.
For a moment, I lay in the darkness, listening to the silence of the bed and breakfast. No traffic noise. No sirens. Just the faint creak of old wood settling. Through the window, evergreens stirred in a faint wind, the gentle bob of the branches making it appear as if the trees waved hello.
I threw back the covers and padded to the bathroom, the hardwood chilly against my bare feet. I put on my glasses and peered at myself in the mirror. My face appeared well-rested. No purple smudges curved under my eyes. The haunted look I sometimes glimpsed was missing.
The amber pill bottle sat on the porcelain sink. A gasp caught in my throat. I’d forgotten to take my medication.
But I’d slept…just fine, actually. No tossing and turning. No nightmares. I picked up the bottle and stared at Dr. Henry’s handwriting. The nightmares left me sweating and shaking, but I could never quite remember the dreams. Every time I woke, the fragments slipped away like smoke through my fingers.
Except for last night. Was it the crisp Alaskan air? Or maybe just a great mattress and exhaustion from a long day ofsetting up equipment. Whatever the reason, I’d slept deeply—and dreamlessly—for the first time in six months.
But I couldn’t forget again. Every research trip came with a hefty price tag, and this one was no exception. If I flubbed my research due to fatigue, I’d lose credibility in the academic community.
Setting the bottle on the edge of the sink where I couldn’t miss it, I pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the taps.
A half hour later, I dressed in layers like Beck suggested: thermal underwear, hiking pants, a moisture-wicking shirt, and a fleece pullover. Sectioning my hair, I plaited it in two French braids to keep it out of my way. By the time I finished packing my field kit, the sky outside my window had lightened to a soft gray.
And the scent of coffee and bacon drifted under the bedroom door.
My stomach growled as I descended the stairs with my boots pinched between my fingers and my pack slung over one shoulder. Buttery light spilled from the kitchen doorway, the glow warm and inviting.
Beck stood at the stove with his back to me. Only half-aware of what I was doing, I stopped on the threshold and drank him in.
Dark gray utility pants clung to his hips and thick, powerful thighs. A cable-knit sweater stretched across shoulders almost as wide as the doorway. His hair was damp, silver threads gleaming under the overhead light. He must have just showered.
Heat crawled up my neck.
“Have a seat,” he rumbled without turning around.
I jumped, barely smothering my gasp. Instantly, the heat spread to my face. How did he hear me without my boots? Then again, the bed and breakfast was old and creaky.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” I asked.
He looked at me over his shoulder, giving me a look at his rugged profile and the glint of one silver eye. A smile curved one side of his mouth. He patted the counter as he turned back to the pan. “Like I told you, a good cook doesn’t want anyone touching his baby. Sit. This is almost ready.”
That “sit” sent more heat spiraling to places I had no business thinking about. Biting the inside of my cheek, I went to the table and settled in a chair. What was wrong with me?
But it was obvious. Beck was an intensely handsome man, and circumstances had forced us together.
Forced?a little voice murmured in my head. I gnawed at my bottom lip as I ignored it. Okay, maybe “forced” wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t like anyone twisted my arm to let Beck guide me. Still, he was a local. He probably knew Bear Cove better than anyone. And as much as I was a feminist, he was right about my gear. It was heavy and bulky, and it slowed me down. With Beck’s help, I could accomplish a lot more, making the most of my time in the field.
He turned with two loaded plates in his hands, and one dark eyebrow went up as he came to the table. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” I said, my stomach growling again.
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he slid a small mountain of eggs in front of me. Toast and crisp-looking bacon balanced on one edge. “Clean your plate, and I won’t make you do dishes.”
The heat pooling between my legs cranked up a few degrees. My cheeks were probably the color of a fire engine. One of the downsides of being a redhead. I could never hide my embarrassment.
Or arousal.
Grabbing my fork, I ducked my head. “Thank you,” I mumbled, my attention on the food. But as I ate, I couldn’t help stealing glances at Beck. He’d pushed his sleeves halfway up his forearms, revealing dark hair sprinkled with silver. Hishand dwarfed his coffee mug as he sipped between bites. His jaw was firm and square, his features rugged but handsome in a classic, underwear model way. The silver in his hair and beard didn’t diminish his attractiveness. On the contrary, it added to his appeal, giving him the look of a retired football player or distinguished Hollywood actor. God, what did he look like in a tux?
Stop it, I told myself, shoving bacon into my mouth.Focus on the research.Except the research wasn’t sitting across from me in a thick sweater.
Beck’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He used his fork to scoop eggs onto his toast, then bit into the whole concoction, his jaw working. He did it again, the tendons in his forearm flexing. Some egg tumbled off his toast, and he stabbed his fork into it and dumped it back onto his makeshift platform before taking another healthy bite.
Polite? Maybe not. Compelling as hell? God, yes.
