“Hmm?”
“You good now?”
Shit. I shake away the forbidden fantasy, my neck heating to inferno levels as I yank myself free from his hold. Thankfully, the dryer buzzer chooses that moment to save me. “Oh yay! My sheets are dry.”
I hurry out of the room like the chicken I am, nearly tripping on Stormy in the hall. She lets out an objectionable yowl as she trots after me toward the laundry closet near the garage door. The one that sits beside the hall pantry.
“You already had treats,” I tell her, my breathing heavy, as though I’d been chased across the house.
Stormy yowls again, as if lodging a complaint.
“Fine,” I say, opening the pantry door to fish out treats and placate my demanding cat. I’ve been more than generous with treats these past few days because her stress levels have been high from all the chaos. “But don’t think I don’t know that you’re totally milking this moving thing.”
After Stormy struts away, temporarily appeased, I pull the sheets out of my dryer. Hugging the soft, warm wad against my chest, I take a deep breath and head back to the bedroom.
With each step, I try to convince myself that what just happened with Wyatt was nothing. That what IthoughtI felt against my ass was pure imagination. I can’t even remember the last time I got laid—I was in Kansas maybe? Some guy with tattoos I met in a bar? Obviously not super memorable. Nowonder I’m so horny. As soon as Wyatt leaves, I’ll find batteries and some relief. Maybe that will tamp down these insane urges I have to tackle the poor man.
“You work fast,” I say to Wyatt when I return to the bedroom, He’s faced away focused on furniture assembly. It takes concentrated effort to tear my gaze away from his very fine as, but once I do, I notice the bookshelf is over half assembled.
“It’s an easy job,” he says with a shrug. “Need help with the bottom sheet?”
“Nah, I got it.”
He returns his attention to the bookshelf. He discarded his uniform shirt in my brief absence, and I can’t help but watch the way his black shirt sleeve strains against his flexed bicep as he works the screwdriver. Fuck, I bet that man could bench press me with one hand. Wetness pools between my legs at the thought.
“I found Walter Smalley,” he says, not looking back.
“Oh good. That means he’s alive!” The relief of the subject change is almost as welcomed as the news itself. I spread the bottom sheet over my mattress and start to tuck the corners in when another thought occurs. “Wait. If he’s alive?—”
“He’s at Shady Pines.”
“What is Shady Pines?”
“A nursing home in Springdale.”
“Why is he—wait, didn’t Paps say something about a grandson? What’s his role in all this?”
“Walter had a mild stroke a few weeks ago, and his grandson put him in a nursing home.”
“That’s really sad.” I struggle with the last corner until I press my chest into the mattress. I tug it taut, but the opposite corner pops free. Dammit.
“That’s why I was late getting here,” he admits. “I was gathering intel.”
“What about Birdie?” I ask, moving around the bed.
“Still trying to figure that out. Oh, get this. Birdie’s not the only one.”
“Only one what?”
Wyatt turns, watching me struggle with the sheet. Mild amusement twinkles in those dark eyes. “Alpaca.”
“I don’t follow. I didn’t think the alpaca race was going extinct.” I yank the fabric down only for the opposite corner to come loose once again. “Son of a bitch.”
“I got it,” Wyatt says, his body lightly brushing mine as he squeezes in the tight space between me and the wall. I fucking hate that a single touch from this man who’s been one of my closest friends for the past year is causing every nerve ending to tingle mercilessly. Why can’t things just go back to the way they were before?
I want theseurgesto go take a fucking hike. I want to look at my best guy friend and not wonder what weapon he’s wielding beneath his pants.
No, you horn dog, you want Wyatt to bend you over the bed and have his filthy way with you.
