He motions for me to follow, heading for the darkened hallway. Clicking a row of light switches, the place radiates warmth, opening up onto a massive library with floor-to-ceilingbooks. It’s a rustic mountain man’s version of the library fromBeauty and the Beast.
I gasp, covering my mouth. Leather and ink hit my nostrils. It’s the kind of room where time would slip away unnoticed.
“I told you I’d put my TBR against yours any day,” he reminds drily, stepping forward, still cradling Dumpling.
“My God, Ambrose. You even have stair ladders.” Unable to control myself, I sprint forward to the nearest shelf. Running my finger along the spines of a row of books with sacred reverence.
He chuckles. “And you’re welcome here anytime. But we probably should get you back to your car soon.”
“You’re right,” I say, voice guilt-tinged as I straighten, admiring for one long moment how Dumpling remains happily nestled in the big brute’s arms. The contrast between his firm muscles and her fluffy softness captures my imagination in filthy ways.What would it feel like to replace the floof with my soft flesh?
To feel those big hands sliding over my hips. Gripping my waist possessively. Pushing me over the edge.
My eyes flutter to his heated ones, guilty thoughts spiraling.What am I doing? I have to go.
Instead, my eyes settle on his far-too kissable lips. I want this man to the depths of my soul … in the darkest, most clandestine parts of my being.
Is this what finding your mythicrightperson feels like? If so, I never want to let this sentiment go, even as fear follows close on its heels, warning me of the dangers of depending too closely on another person, especially a man with a notoriously dangerous job.
Still, what would it be like to be his girlfriend? To sit in this cozy space with him, relaxing and reading together?
He shifts his weight, appraising me quietly. “Can I get you a drink or something?”
The question jolts through my body. “Oh, no, I really must go.”Because if I stay, I’ll never leave. And that would never do.Gran is counting on me. So is Tilly.
I promised to be her caretaker, and I can’t let anything get in the way of that. There will be time for love later, once I’m in a better place in life, more secure in myself and my finances.
Ambrose follows me to the door, face puzzled. “Did I say or do something wrong?”
“No, it’s just late. I’m sure you’re tired, and I don’t want to be a bother?—”
He frowns. “You could never be a bother. It’s not possible. But I do understand this night was far from pleasurable, constantly running from fans. I get it.”
It was awkward. It was frustrating. It was the best night of my life.
The last sentence sits on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t want to give this man mixed signals when I can’t even sort out what I’m feeling.
It’s been this way ever since my dad left mom and me when I was a child. I had to put on a tough face and act as my mother’s parent, in so many ways, to keep her going despite the pain of rejection and abandonment.It made me disconnect from my emotions … until feeling nothing became a habit. My only safe place.
Ambrose retrieves a cardboard carrier for Dumpling, placing her, along with her food and medicine, in the extended cab. He turns up the country love songs even louder this time, resigned to my silence.
I don’t mean to be so quiet and closed off. But he’s triggered a wound that runs deep. I know he didn’t mean to. That doesn’t stop it from aching and smarting as we reach the high school parking lot, though.
The cowboy parks next to my navy blue Corolla, and I hop out unceremoniously. I half expect him to scold me again, but he doesn’t. I can feel the disapproval and disappointment pouring off him, though.
“This was fun. Thank you,” I say softly.
He nods, pulling the cat carrier and Dumpling’s supplies out of the back seat and waiting patiently until I open the trunk for him to deposit them. I close it, and he stands unmoving, arms crossed over his broad chest and thick thighs spread ever so slightly in a formidable stance.
It takes my breath away.Hetakes my breath away.
I fumble with my key fob and door, looking up to watch his jaw muscles tense as he watches me without moving. A pained expression etches in his face, as though seeing me open my own door causes true distress. But he says nothing. He does nothing.
“Good night,” I squeak, and he nods.
Inside, I clumsily put the key in the ignition, hands shaking so much that I drop my keys on the driver’s side floor instead.
Great. Could this get any more awkward?
