Page 9 of Finding Forever

Not all men are unfaithful. I know that. There are many worthy and decent men. But I’m good where I’m at. No man needed. Even a wounded marshal with a protective streak I find incredibly sexy.

“Compromise. We’ll do it together,” he says. “You know the layout. Take me window to window.”

It doesn’t sound like much of a compromise.

I lay a hand on his arm. “Wait, I just remembered. I think I’ve got something you can wear.”

He doesn’t argue as I steer him across the kitchen to the service porch, though I recognize the restless tension in him. I feel around on a shelf until my fingers hit a plastic bin and set it on the bench. I click on the flashlight, shielding most of the light, and dig until I find what I’m looking for: sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie.

“These’ll be small on you, but they’re better than nothing.”

“They belong to your boyfriend?” His tone turns surly.

“No.”

“Ex-boyfriend? I’m not wearing your ex’s clothes.”

I snort quietly. “Who cares, Marshal Elliott?”

“I care,” he growls, low and unmistakably territorial.

My heart skips a beat. “Fine. A guest left these in the dryer and never came back for them. Sit down and I’ll help you get them on.”

“I can do it.”

“Sure,” I say mildly. “And it’ll take you twice as long. Don’t be stubborn.”

That, apparently, lands. He exhales sharply and sits. The windows in here are high, so there’s less chance of light spilling outside. I set the flashlight on the bench and crouch, guiding the sweatpants over one bare foot, then the other.

“Stand up, Katarina.”

I’m on my knees in front of him. “You stand and I’ll pull them up.” I reach for the flashlight.

“Jesus Christ, no. Get up.” He sounds all kinds of pissed.

“Okay, okay. No need to be grumpy.”

“You’d be too if you were in my position.”

He’s not wrong. I straighten and fold my arms, watching him struggle one-handed until he finally gets the sweats in place.

“Maybe you can use your teeth to get the hoodie on,” I say primly.

“You can help me.” When I raise a brow, he adds a grudging, “Please.”

“Since you ask so nicely,” I say, “sure.”

“Smart-ass,” he mutters. “You look like an angel, but you’re really not.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

Being so close heightens my awareness of him: his breathing, the flare of interest in his dark eyes, the wild scent of him that doesn’t quite belong indoors.

With his left arm in one sleeve, I drape the other carefully around his injured shoulder. When I lift the light, something glints in the sling.

“Is that your gun?”

“I didn’t have many options,” he says in a gravelly voice. “This gives me access.”