Izzy smiled.
He picked up her case again and nodded toward the hallway.
“You can take the guest room.”
“And there are no bats?”
“No bats.”
“Can you promise that with confidence?”
“Yes.”
She studied him. “That sounds sincere. I hate how much I needed that.”
He led her down the hall and opened the door.
Soft cream walls. Iron bedframe. Wood dresser. A window looking out over the pasture.
Grant set her bag down. For a moment, neither of them moved.
She stood there in a tiny charcoal camisole that hugged every curve and matching sleep shorts riding low on her hips, a clean strip of bare skin between them, and long, bare legs below. Damp dark hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the lamplight along the line of her throat and collarbones.She looked like some late-night temptation dropped right into the middle of his sensible, ordered house.
This, he thought grimly,was exactly why he hadn’t wanted her here.
His eyes dropped once—not a glance, but a slow, traitorous drag—from the edge of the cami down to that narrow band of skin and the tiny shorts sitting too damn low on her hips, then down the long line of her legs before he forced his gaze back up where it belonged.
Good Lord. How the hell was he supposed to get any work done with that walking around his place?Heat settled low in his stomach, sharp and intrusive.
Izzy saw the way his gaze dragged over her—slow, assessing, entirely too aware. Ridiculous. She’d been terrorized by Dracula’s cousins, and yet all she could think about was the way his eyes had lingered on her—and the way he’d said her name.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a notch lower than intended.
“You’re welcome,” he said, the words sounding like they cost him. He still didn’t look happy she was there—if anything, he looked like a man mentally reworking his entire week around a problem he hadn’t budgeted for.
He stepped back into the hall, but the ghost of his presence stayed in the room, clashing with the scent of her expensive jasmine lotion.
“Get some sleep, Izzy.”
The way he said her name settled somewhere deep and dangerously soft.
5
Bridlepath Farm — The Next Morning
Izzy woke slowly, disoriented.
The room was quiet. Soft light filtered through the curtains. Cedar and something warmer—coffee—drifted in from somewhere down the hall.
Not her condo. Not the gallery. Izzy blinked at the ceiling.
The cottage. The bats. Grant.
Her mouth curved.
“Well,” she murmured, voice still soft with sleep, “that escalated.”
She pushed herself up against the pillows and took in the room again in daylight. Less shadow, more detail. The iron bedframe. The worn wood of the dresser. The soft stretch of sunlight across the floor.
