The simple admission, delivered so matter-of-factly, made her heart stutter. This was what she’d been missing in Florida—this raw, unfiltered honesty. No cameras, no audience, no performance.
“Even when I put disturbing images in your head?”
“Even then.” He tucked his towel around his waist and pulled her close, dropping a kiss on her damp forehead. “Though I might need therapy. More therapy,” he amended, and released her. “Go get dressed while I try to do something with this.” He motioned to his face.
His beard was wild right now, still flecked with gold paint and sleep-rumpled despite their shower.
She reached up and ran her fingers through it, shaping it slightly. “Do you have to? I like the untamed mountain man look.”
“That’s not what you said last week when you threatened to cut it off while I was sleeping.”
“That was before I knew how good it feels against certain... sensitive areas.” She flashed him a wicked smile that made his eyes darken.
“Magnolia Rowe,” he rumbled, “if you don’t get out of this bathroom right now, we’re never making it to Christmas breakfast.”
She laughed and slipped past him, gathering her scattered clothes from the floor. Most were unwearable—stained with gold paint or wrinkled beyond repair. She rummaged through her dresser drawers, pulling out clean leggings and a soft green sweater that brought out the color of her eyes. And then, just because she wanted to, she wrapped his flannel around her and breathed in his scent.
She perched on the edge of his bed, the sheets tangled from their earlier activities, and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Something about wearing his clothes felt more intimate than the sex they’d just had in the shower. More possessive. More permanent.
His phone buzzed against the nightstand, skittering across the wooden surface with each ring.
She glanced at it in surprise. She’d never heard it ring before; in fact, most of the time she forgot he even had it.
Bramble raised his head from where he was stretched out in front of the door, ears lifting, head cocked like,“Are you going to answer that?”
“Anson? Your phone.”
No response.
She scooped up the phone and went to the closed bathroom door. A razor buzzed on the other side. She reached for the knob, but hesitated. Were they in the barging into the bathroom part of their relationship?
No.
She backed away from the door and set the phone down where she’d found it. She’d just let the call go to voicemail…
But, as far as she knew, the only people who had his number were the men of Valor Ridge.
What if it was an emergency? Like something wrong with the kittens or?—
She lunged for the phone and answered without looking at the screen. “Hello?”
A long pause. “This isn’t Anson.” A man’s voice, gruff but not hostile. Definitely not one of the Ridge guys.
She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the ID. It read, “Dad.”
Shit.
Anson’s father was calling on Christmas morning. The same father he’d mentioned in his letters but never talked about here. The same father who she’d assumed was no longer living, given how Anson always wrote of him in the past tense.
She jabbed the speaker button. “Uh, hi. No, I’m Maggie. Anson’s... in the shower.” She winced. Oversharing with the man’s father first thing in the morning was definitely not on her Christmas wishlist.
“Ah.” Another pause, then: “This is Wendell. His father.”
“I figured. Caller ID said ‘Dad.’ Unless there’s another dad I don’t know about.” She laughed nervously, immediately regretting the joke.
To her surprise, Wendell let out a dry chuckle. “Just the one, far as I know. Maggie, you said? You his girlfriend?”
The question took her aback. Was she? They hadn’t exactly put a label on things last night. “I’m... yes. Maggie Rowe.”
