But Dair lazing in that big bed, one long leg straight, the other bent, his back to the flowered headboard, his broad, furred chest on display, his hair tousled with sleep.
He was hot.
He was handsome.
He was beautiful.
He was mine.
I was emotional, obviously, considering the circumstances, but the wave of emotion that overwhelmed me at seeing this man in my bed in this house didn’t have anything to do with that.
I knew I was falling for him before we heard the news about Mum.
But how many men—when they’ve just started something with a woman, her visit turns into a fuck-a-thon, but this gets interrupted by some of the worst news you’ll ever receive in your life—drops everything to be there for her?
I heard him on the phone yesterday telling the network he wasn’t going to be able to call an upcoming match. And I was a mess, and he took pains to be subtle about it, but I still didn’t miss how busy he was sending texts and emails, probably bowing out of meetings and rescheduling things. Though, I said “probably” because he didn’t mention a word to me about having to do any of that.
He took care of the plane tickets, the rental car, Sorcha.
I’d helped with my stuff in a kind of automaton way, but for the most part, he’d packed us both.
And now he was lazed in my bed on my iPad.
He was not on the phone blatantly dealing with work, giving the subtle hint of how much he was sacrificing for me and that I should appreciate it. He took care of all of that yesterday, subtly, without that first indication he was making a production of it so I didn’t miss it, thus I would be appropriately grateful when the time came for him to use the brownie points he’d racked up.
So…yes.
I’d already been falling for him.
I was falling faster now.
I moved to the bed, asking, “What?”
“Take a look at these,” he bid.
I entered the bed to rest on my stomach, and he turned the iPad my way.
I stared at what I saw.
“Which one ye like?” he asked. “I’ll order it and have it expressed.”
“I…you…” I stammered then tore my gaze from the screen to look up at him. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Buying you riding clothes.”
“I can see that, Dair, but?—”
“Christine says your mum has two horses in the stables. They need exercise.”
“I can ride a horse in jeans, regular boots and a sweater.” I flipped a hand at the iPad screen. “I don’t need a formal riding habit.”
His huge grin made an appearance, and he teased, “Lady Norton doesn’t wear jeans riding, lassie.”
I screwed my eyes up at him. “Is this some kind of kink?”
That grin turned roguish, and he answered, “Wasn’t, until I thought of your ass in these jodhpurs.”
I slapped him on the stomach. He grunted, but I sensed it was just for show.
