“I suppose,” he said, removing his cowboy hat, “the best place for me to get down to my skivvies is my bedroom.” He rubbed the back of his head, awkward.
I’d never been to his bedroom before, and bit back a cheeky retort because Kit wasn’t even trying to hide the amount of pain he was in. That was worrisome in the extreme.
He turned toward a short hallway to the left with a quick look over his shoulder, a silent directive. I dutifully followed him, then nearly ran into him, then when he hitched a stop.
I reached out to prevent him from falling. “Kit?”
“Sorry,” he said, breathing heavily. “It’s like the knives being jammed into the back of my knee are on fire.”
I gripped his shoulders. “Honey, the doctor I work for is fantastic. You need to make an appointment with her.”
“So you keep saying.”
“’Cause it keeps bein’ true,” I said, letting some of my Texas slide in there.
He thinned his lips and continued his stroll-limp to the primary bedroom, which was . . . wow. Jaw-dropping and style magazine cover-worthy barely covered it.
I let out another low whistle. “Your living room is inviting and well-decorated, but this? Holy hell, Kit. This is pretty fancy for a cowboy, isn’t it?”
“Shush,” he said, limping toward his California King. While the mattress was plush and beautifully appointed with simple, luxe materials, what stood out was the tall headboard made of intricately carved, whitewashed wood.
“Where’d you get your headboard from?”
He smiled. “Accompanied Cynthia and her new wife on their honeymoon to Bali, oddly enough.”
I set down my medical bag, confused. “Uh . . .”
“It was their idea,” he said with a shrug. “Reed doesn’t do well with change, so it made sense for me to go so he could see them when he needed to, but they could still get plenty of alone time.”
This added quite the layer. I remembered, belatedly, that his son Reed was autistic and nonverbal. He’d also been kinda funny when he messaged me about his wrist a few months ago.
“I see.”
Gesturing to the headboard, he said, “Anyway, my son and I were shopping in a market one day, and he went right up to this piece. It’s from a series of four panels—the three that make up my headboard, and the one hanging in his room at his mom’s house. He likes to trace the design with his finger when he gets overstimulated. It’s part of his meltdown protocol.”
“Sounds like it’s a special piece.”
“Yeah,” he said, pausing to look at it again. “I needed a fresh start in here and it meant a lot that my son helped me choose such an important piece.”
He went quiet, so I switched tactics, pointing to the bench at the end of his bed. “I’m guessing that’s probably a comfortable place for you to sit?”
“Good a place as any.”
“Excellent. Now take your pants off.”
3
KIT
“I’m justglad I wore the nicer boxers today. I’d’ve been embarrassed for you to see my Costco underwear.”
Skylar laughed, his pretty eyes sparkling with glitter, or whatever it was he wore on his eyelids. “I’m guessing you spent less on a fifteen pack of boxers than I spent on this single pair of panties I’m wearing right now,” he said, pulling down his waistband to reveal a lacy scrap of fabric.
My face heated, but only ’cause I was shocked by how sexy the pale pink lace looked against his tanned skin. Then again, I’d always appreciated pretty lingerie whenever a woman wore it for me.
“I’m gonna take your word on that,” I managed, hoping I sounded normal. “Though . . . I might need help removing these boots.”
“Anything to get you out of your Wranglers, cowboy.”
