But now he was here. In her sanctuary. The place where she’d held her breath and listened for the slightest sound he made. The smallest cough or the quietest snore.
Had she mentioned his bedroom was right next door?
For four years, she’d roomed next to the man who’d won her over a little at a time and then all at once. For four years she’d slept with her head only a few feet from his because their beds backed up against the same wall. And for four years she’d sat in the velvet armchair pushed into the corner anytime she heard him playing his harmonica.
She could always guess his mood from whichever song drifted in through the thick, brick wall. If he was sad, he went for the blues, Billie Holiday or Eric Clapton. If he was happy, it was Taylor Swift. Every time. And when she heard him break into “The New Romantics”or “Lover,” she couldn’t help smiling to herself.
There was something endearing about a big, bad, fighting man being a Swiftie.
“You’re in my room.” The words tumbled out of her mouth without her permission.
“Is that okay?” There was hesitation in his face. He hastily dropped his hand from her elbow, and his touch left behind a warm spot that she wanted to cover with her fingers and hold onto forever. “Looked like ya were ’bout to fall down. I reckoned the closer we were to your bed, the better.”
Bed.
He was in her room and he’d saidbed.
Worse, his eyes drifted over to the bed in question, and she wondered if he could sense the fantasies she’d had about him while lyingright there.Were there psychic vibrations left over from all the times she’d quietly pleasured herself while thinking of him as he lay in his own bed only a few feet away?
To distract him—and herself—from the way the air around them seemed to thicken, she glanced at the drink in his hand. “Hot chocolate? In July?”
He passed her the mug. She realized her fingers were blocks of ice when the warmth seeping through the clay made her frozen bones ache.
“Shock chills ya to the bone,” he said. “It’s a kind of cold no one can understand unless they’ve experienced it themselves.”
He knows about the ice in my core.
Well, of course he did. He was Fisher Wakefield. A big, bad fighting man with a heart of gold and enough empathy to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
That wasanotherthing she loved about him. His work all these years hadn’t hardened him. He wasn’t quiet or stoic like Graham or Hewitt. He was still softhearted.Sensitive.
When a lump formed in her throat, she forced herself to swallow it down. She couldn’t let him know how vulnerable she was. If she did, he’d take her in his arms. And once she was there, she’d never want to leave.
Self-preservation had her falling back on their tried-and-true method of communication.
“Did you make this or…” She curled her top lip and eyed the hot chocolate with suspicion.
His frown was severe. When he crossed his arms, the sleeves of his plain black T-shirt stretched tight around his biceps. “No. That’s Britt’s handywork. And stop lookin’ so relieved. I can make hot chocolate.”
She’d brought the mug halfway to her lips, but that had her lowering it again. “Um, correct me if I’m wrong. But didn’t you dump half a bottle of vanilla extract into the pan the last time you tried to make my recipe?”
“Your recipe didn’t say how much vanilla extract to add. It just saidvanilla extract.” He made air quotes. “So I measured with my heart.”
She rolled in her lips to keep from laughing—the stuff had been undrinkable. In the next instant, however, her conscience reminded her of the man who’d wanted to be her husband had died saving her life. Which meant she had no business laughing.
Once again guilt slammed into her. It was more than her mashed potato muscles could take. They threatened to give up on her entirely.
“Whoa.” Fisher cupped both her elbows when she wobbled. He carefully lowered her to the side of bed and then took the steaming cup of hot chocolate from her to set it on her nightstand.
When he sat down beside her, the mattress depressed under his weight. She slid toward him until they were shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.
They’d never been the touchy-feely sort of coworkers. Or maybe it was more accurate to say she’d never been particularly touchy-feely withhim. The truth was, touching him a little only made her want to touch himmore.
There’d been a brief period, however, after he’d shared a painful truth about a mission in South America, when they’d expanded the boundaries of their relationship and shifted from being simply coworkers and sparring partners to being…well…friends.
During that time, he’d taken to throwing an arm around her shoulders or nudging her chin with his knuckle. But it’d all come to a stop as quickly as it’d started.
Had he regretted telling her what had happened on that fateful mission? Had he decided he preferred her feigned animosity to her friendship? Had she said or done something to make him change his mind about the amended nature of their association?
