Out on a Limb

by Lauren Giordano

  When her eyes fluttered open, the confusion he read in their velvety depths told him she needed warmth, and damned soon. Pushed to action, Travis strode down the hall to the linen closet and yanked out a blanket. Returning to the kitchen, he wrapped it around her before heading for the guest bathroom. Turning on the jets in the shower, he was grateful he'd remodeled it to a standup shower. MaryJo didn't look as though she had the strength remaining to climb over the side of a tub.

  Willing his teeth to stop chattering, he detoured to the guestroom. Kicking off his shoes first, he stripped out of the soaked shirt. Once she'd warmed up a bit and it was safe to put her in the shower, he could sprint upstairs and change into dry clothes. Jogging back to the kitchen, he discovered her still lurched over the table, exactly where he'd left her. Alarmed, he cleared his throat. "I've got the shower running. Let's get you down the hall and into the steam so you can warm up."

  "Okay." Her mumbled response drifted up from the placemat. Sometime in the past two minutes, she'd face-planted on the table.

  Hell. Maybe he should forget the shower and just call the rescue squad. But, that would mean another nine minutes of her shivering in wet clothes before help arrived. Hauling her to her feet, Travis made his decision. If she was still in bad shape after he got her warmed up, he'd call for help.

  Half walking, half carrying her, he cajoled her down the hallway. Pushing open the bathroom door, he was met with an incredible blast of steamy heat. "Okay, MaryJo—not much longer. Can you get out of those clothes?"

  Head resting on his shoulder, her eyes fluttered open. "Where am I?"

  Hesitating, his brain battled between caution and urgency. He was about to strip a strange woman in his bathroom. When she came to her senses, he'd be screwed. But, if she didn't—her condition could worsen. Cursing, he propped her against the wall and yanked the shirt over her head. Her icy skin confirmed his suspicion. Tossing it aside, he shimmied her free of what were quite possibly the ugliest pajamas he'd ever seen. Who the hell ventured outside wearing fuzzy pants with electric green frogs leaping across them?

  Bundling the blanket around her, he hoisted MaryJo against him, his muscles aching where chill had already settled in. Releasing a gasp of shock when her cold, clammy chest came into contact with his, Travis realized the danger. Christ, she was seriously freezing. If he put her in the shower too soon, she could go into shock.

  "You smell good." Her head lolled to the side. Blinking owlishly, she tried to look up at him. "I mean it. Like—an ocean."

  "Uh-huh." For the next twenty minutes, Travis held her against him, letting the steam and the blanket and his body heat work their magic. Finally, she began showing signs of thawing. "Okay—I think it's safe to get in the shower." Even as he spoke the words, he knew he'd have to prop her up in there. There'd be no leaving. No running upstairs for dry clothes. There'd be only him—holding up MaryJo and praying they didn't topple over and fracture their skulls on the ceramic tile.

  Swearing, he unzipped his jeans. Already uncomfortably wet from the icy rain, he'd have to cut the damn things off if he showered in them. Thankfully, MaryJo was still too zonked to notice that he'd be practically naked, too. Leaving her bra and panties in place, he finagled her into the shower, clutching her against him as he nudged her under the showerhead.

  For several minutes, Cat lady remained slack in his arms. The only warm thing about her was her breath as it tickled his neck. But, the hot water streaming over them more than made up for the popsicle he held in his arms. Nothing had ever felt so good.

  "You okay? Warming up yet?" Travis felt her nod against his chest. Slowly, one arm lifted to anchor around his neck. "Want me to turn you around now?"

  "I—I think I c-can do it." Raising her gaze to meet his, he was relieved to find awareness. Clarity. Embarrassment, even. In startlingly warm, brown eyes. With heat rising in her cheeks, MaryJo finally appeared human.

  "I'm gonna stay—in case you have trouble." With warm water cascading over them, she slowly turned to face the front of the shower, teeth still chattering—but less than before. Travis kept his hands planted on her hips, his touch light, but hopefully reassuring. She was easily 5'9. Was that what she meant about big? Why did women always worry about stuff they couldn't control? What did it matter how tall you were? Frankly, at six three, not enough women were tall enough to suit him. With MaryJo, his hands rested in exactly the right spot.

  "I r-really think I'm okay n-now. You can l-leave." Her mortified voice grew more insistent.

  He smiled. "You need a few more minutes under there. I want to make sure your core temperature is back to normal before you get out. Otherwise, you'll be shivering all night."

  "Are you a d-doctor? Because you s-sound like you know what you're t-talking about.

  "No, but I play one on TV." Worry flared in the glance she sent over a slender shoulder. Idiot—she's afraid. "I'm a volunteer EMT," he hastened to explain. "I ride on the rescue squad several days a month."

  "I t-think I'm w-warm enough."

  "You need at least ten more minutes," he decided. "Try not to be embarrassed, okay?"

  "I'm nearly n-naked in a shower w-with a man I c-crushed thirty minutes ago."

  Strangest Friday night ever. Behind her, Travis grinned. "When you say it that way-" He choked back his laughter, pretty sure it wouldn't instill confidence. Cat lady was feeling better. "I promise I'm not seeing anything," he lied, trying not to notice the long, delicate path of her spine. Then, his uncooperative eyes tried not noticing where it trailed into sheer, soaking panties that left absolutely nothing to his over-active imagination. Panties that were plastered to a curvy—some would perhaps use the term award-winning—to describe an ass like the one he was staring at. To his no-willpower eyes, it damn well neared perfection. Which—he tried not to notice.

  Releasing MaryJo, he stepped from the shower. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around his waist to hide the mounting evidence of not noticing his hotter-than-hell neighbor. Turning to block her view, he snagged several towels for her and placed them on the counter. "Okay—I'm leaving you for a few minutes. I'm gonna run upstairs and change," he explained. And hope his saluting cock would settle down. "I'll try to find—some clothes for you to wear." Big clothes. Baggy clothes. Pausing, he turned back. "Don’t even think about moving. I don't want you to fall."

  "But I-"

  He paused, unwilling to leave until he was sure she wouldn't attempt getting out. She could stumble. Hit her head. "MaryJo—no joking. You're going to be weak and clumsy for a while. Wait for me to get back, okay?"

  Her face appeared around the glass door, toffee eyes wide with apprehension, her teeth worrying a lusciously full bottom lip. "Thank you . . . for helping me tonight. I'm really sorry . . . about everything."

  Tinged with a husky thread of worry, her sexy voice seared down his nerves, leaving his body tingling. "No problem." He gritted his teeth. "That's what neighbors are for, right?"

  Chapter 2

  The towel clutched firmly around her, MaryJo teetered on the toilet seat lid, the room tilting drunkenly. What was wrong with her? Her brain seemed to be functioning at half speed—her movements sluggish as she battled an overwhelming wave of sleepiness. "Snap out of it," she ordered her lethargic brain.

  Could this night get any worse? She was scratched and bruised. Every bone in her body aching. And now—she was naked. "In the neighbor's house." Naked with a man were not exactly the words she would use to describe herself. At least, not for the past few years. She'd made her peace with their species. She was simply better at being friends with them. Sports buddy. After-work-for-a-beer girl. Fending off the occasional hookup request.

  For a woman with self-esteem issues, hookups hadn't proven to be the best answer to her problem. Ultimately, MaryJo was more comfortable assuming the role of friend. The role of just one of the guys. At least that way, they accepted her. And she never felt threatened. Or awkward. Or nervous around them. Or noticed.

 
Until now. Now—she was nervous. And definitely awkward. She was in a strange man's home. Injured. Vulnerable. Half blind without her glasses. And naked. There really wasn't much more she could add to the laundry list of items that would trigger hyperventilation. To top it off—he was seriously attractive. Not the kind of guy who was sort of attractive. Travis was in the way-out-of-your-league category. Even in her blurry, out-of-focus, half-dead state, MaryJo knew hot. 'Hot' translated through illness, fear, and apparently—borderline unconsciousness. Travis was the guy she'd secretly drool over while fake-watching basketball with the guys from work. But—he was definitely not the guy she'd be able to form coherent sentences for.

  Though she couldn't really see him, he smelled great. His presence radiated strength. Assurance. He'd held her up in the shower as though it hadn't mattered that she was ginormous. The chest under her bruised cheek had been chiseled, his heartbeat reassuringly steady to her ear. If only she'd been lucid enough to enjoy it. Swoon-worthy pecs—and she'd basically slept against them. Despite her blurry vision, Travis seemed to inhabit a nice face. And he was funny. Who didn't love guys who were funny?

  Heat stealing over her, MaryJo yawned. Lord, she was so tired. The thought of venturing back out into the storm was—unpleasant. When she felt herself tipping forward, she jerked her eyes open. When had she fallen asleep? Maybe she'd be safer on the floor. At least there, she couldn't fall again.

  "What the hell are you doing? Jeez—did you fall?"

  She forced her eyes open. "My dad says you can't fall off the floor."

  "MaryJo—did you lay down? Or did you fall?"

  She felt her shoulders being lifted from the floor. "Jus—a little tired. Thought I could take a nap."

  "On the bathroom floor?"

  "I feel drunk." When his fingers searched the back of her head, she breathed in his Travis-y smell. Like—the beach. And soap. "You smell really good."

  "So you've said." His voice sounded annoyed again. "I don't feel any bumps. Let's get you off the floor, okay?"

  MaryJo smiled dreamily. "Okay." Before she knew what was happening, Travis scooped her into his arms. Her weariness forgotten, panic flared as she struggled against him. "No—I'm too heavy. Don't-"

  "Please—you insult me." Gathering her to his chest, he moved into the hallway. "See—no issues. I'm a weightlifter, remember?"

  Shivering as they left the steamy heat of the bathroom, MaryJo's dulled senses reactivated as she realized she was still wrapped in a towel. "I—did you . . . do you have any clothes I could b-borrow?"

  "Yeah. I've got the fireplace going in the living room. I thought I'd bundle you up in there for a while."

  His voice didn't indicate he was straining to carry a heavy burden. But—maybe he was just being nice. Either way, she admitted—it was comforting. "I don't want to bother-"

  "It's no trouble," he assured. "Besides, I want to see how you're doing. Once I know you’re over the worst of it, I can take you home."

  He settled her on a couch, overlooking a gas fireplace. The heat emanating from the fake logs was too good to resist. After propping her up against the pillows, Travis handed her a sweatshirt.

  "Put this on. I'll turn my back. I've got sweatpants, too, but you'll probably swim in them."

  She tugged the sweatshirt over her head. "It's so warm," she exclaimed, her head still searching for the neck hole. "Oh my gosh—this is heaven."

  "I threw it in the dryer to warm it up." Accepting the towel she tugged free, he handed her the pants. "Do you need help standing?"

  Glancing cautiously at his back, she shimmied into the sweatpants while staying seated on the couch. "No—I'm good."

  "Okay to turn around?"

  Snuggling back into the corner of the couch, she'd never felt so cozy and coddled in her entire life. The wave of sleepiness returned with a vengeance. "I'm ready."

  "I'll get you a few ibuprofin for the aches."

  Sensing his gaze on her, she made a diligent effort to focus on his words. Ibu . . . something. And then something about soup.

  ". . . so you're warm on the inside, okay?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "There’s not much on TV, but we could watch some of the basketball game," he suggested, "before I take you home."

  Shifting against the pillows, MaryJo fought to keep her eyes open. "Notre Dame and—Michigan . . . like their . . . point guard."

  SHE WAS ASLEEP WITHIN seconds. Travis stood over her, briefly envying the ability to simply drift away—until realizing it was the aftermath of nearly freezing to death. He would've felt better getting a round of anti-inflammatory into her before she passed out. But—they likely wouldn't do much for her pain. Eight hours from now, she would be in a world of hurt.

  A relaxed sigh drew his gaze back to her face. A pretty face—despite the purple contusion. Probably, he should ice it, but he was hesitant to disturb her again. And he'd just gotten her warmed up. Tugging the woolen throw over her shoulders, he noticed the delicate collarbone and creamy expanse of skin still visible in his huge sweatshirt.

  MaryJo was definitely tall. Lanky—bordering on too skinny. Remembering her comment, he smiled. "Michigan's point guard is great," he agreed. An attractive sports fanatic. Pretty much every guy's fantasy woman. Yet, all Travis had gleaned from his encounter thus far was that she felt huge. And unappealing. It never failed to amaze him, witnessing all the different ways women learned to beat themselves up.

  Interest kindling, he reluctantly headed back to the kitchen. Between his maniacal stint programming and his neighbor's fall from the tree, dinner had been forgotten. As he passed through the darkened dining room, an ungodly screech at the French door made him jump.

  Hell—it was her cat, paws against the glass, golden eyes gleaming with intent. Maybe he could pretend he didn't see-

  The yowling increased, along with a round of spastic scratching at the glass. "Great." Just what he needed—an animal roaming the house. His sigh aggravated, he unlocked the French door—allowing the soaking, bedraggled fleabag into his—until now—dander-free, hair-free, pet-or-any-other-living-creature-free home.

  The cat stared at him, mewing piteously. "Alright," he relented. "I'll get you a towel." When he continued to stare, Travis gave in. "I suppose you're starving, too?"

  Surprisingly, Jack the cat was grateful to be dried off and fluffed up. And the tuna he mustered from the pantry seemed to fit the bill. While he was at it, he made himself a few sandwiches. When they’d both finished their dinner, Jack rubbed up against his legs. Chuckling, Travis felt the urge to set him straight. "Don't even think about moving in here," he warned. "I have zero time for pets. You'd be lucky to get fed once a week."

  Dumping his paper plate in the trash, he discovered Jack following him, his golden eyed stare a little unnerving. "How about I take you to MaryJo? You can keep her feet warm."

  Trailing back through the house, he checked over his shoulder. The cat was still with him. A little tuna and all of a sudden, he was the pied piper. "If only it worked that way with women. Ply them with tuna and they fall at your feet." Smirking at the image in his head, he watched the cat as he entered the living room.

  Jack didn't wait for an invitation when he found MaryJo sprawled on the couch. Sniffing the air, he caught her scent. After a graceful leap onto the couch, the cat turned around twice before settling on the blanket near her feet.

  Moments later, there were two strangers asleep on his couch. Fighting the urge to hover over her, he noticed her hair was drying. Wispy tendrils of black satin. He brushed them gently aside when he tested her forehead, checking for fever. The strands were soft—like her skin, he confirmed. And shiny, catching the light from the fire. A luxurious, thick fall of midnight colored-

  What the hell? Travis did a double take before reluctantly retreating a few steps. Midnight hair? Seriously? Exactly where was he going with this? Determined, he picked up the remote and clicked on the basketball game. She was right. Michigan's point guard was havin
g an amazing season.

  Though he tried to keep his mind on the game, his gaze kept drifting to her, his concentration shot. "It's an unusual situation," he reminded himself. It wasn’t every night a pretty trespasser fell from his tree. Or took a shower with him. Or slept on his couch. He’d allowed a strange cat entry to his home. What else could happen on a weird Friday night?

  Eventually, MaryJo turned over, facing him. Dark, sweeping lashes against creamy skin. Her cheeks finally showing a healthy dose of pink as she snuggled under the blanket. Again, Travis forced his gaze back to the television.

  Then she sighed in her sleep. And he was forced to look at her mouth. Lips a little too full. A little too red. A little too—everything. But curiously appealing. Her smile was probably wide—assuming she was the type of woman who smiled a lot. Her personality had hinted at a sense of humor. She'd handled his groping pretty well—firing back with a joke, despite being half dead at the time. Damn—not a good time to remember her breasts. Though it had only been seconds, his hands had come away from the encounter with sensory memory. They were the perfect size.

  Forcing his eyes back to the game, he re-focused. Michigan up by nine at the half. Thinking about MaryJo's breasts only served to remind him that it had been a really long time since he'd been out with a woman. Since he'd even talked to a woman—other than the few on his coding team. Since he'd slept with someone. Since he'd thought about anything other than the damned software launch and how to manage his disastrous partnership with Patrice.

  Despite his careless sense of business acumen, Travis knew better than to risk any sort of relationship with someone at work. Especially since he was the boss. Hell—the owner. It would be a lawsuit waiting to happen. Even he wasn’t that clueless. Thus, the question had remained. Where did one go for sex when one worked eighteen hours a day?

  Very early in their relationship, Patrice had given off pretty clear signals she would be available—indicating a willingness to do just about anything to keep him and the rest of his hand-picked team focused and on task. Of course—that had been before everyone realized she was batshit crazy.