Maybe we’ll watch a movie or something stupid.
It’s still early.
I don’t want her thinking every night with me means sex. As if that’s all I want from her.
Even though I do want sex.
Even though my body is very much aware that she’s here.
CHAPTER 34
WILLOW
He even does the dishes.
Does the freaking dishes.
And somehow that small, domestic thing just floors me.
Like it shouldn't matter, right? But it does.
It matters more than I want to admit.
I’m still grinning as I walk down the hall toward the main bathroom, clutching the oversized flannel I like to wear in the evenings and a fresh pair of leggings I snag from the laundry basket in his room.
Because yeah, Thatcher McCrae has a whole routine now.
He washes my clothes.
Without me asking.
Without making a big deal about it.
Every morning, without fail, the things I wore the day before are clean.
Folded—well, mostly.
He’s not Martha Stewart—but they’re warm and dry and sitting in a basket inside his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like they belong there.
Like I do.
I pause at the bathroom mirror and catch a glimpse of myself.
My skin looks clearer. My eyes brighter. My cheeks have this ridiculous flush to them like I’ve been kissed all over by sunshine.
But really, it’s the affection of one very sexy lumberjack that’s responsible for all that.
Okay, so he might actually be perfect.
Grumpy. Growly. Obsessed with kissing me.And perfect.
I shake my head at myself, still smiling like an idiot, and start peeling off my clothes.
My sweatshirt, thermal, bra.
Then my leggings.
