by Laura Wright
But that would be STUPID. Maybe I’d get him here to my party and all, but Mama would think he’d be a friend for Deac and James. I don’t know. Seems like a big can of worms I don’t wanna open.
Is it dumb that I want to show him off?
Don’t answer that.
Cass
P.S. Haven’t felt like any eyes are on me the last couple of days. But I keep watching and waitin’. Bye-bye for now.
Six
The question was, how many times could an adult read the Harry Potter series before it got weird? Or embarrassing?
Five? Ten?
Do you really care? Grace asked herself as she closed Chamber of Secrets and opened up Prisoner of Azkaban. The judgment of your reading choices is your own, babe. Besides, nights like these were made for dipping into one of the best fantasy worlds of all time. Heavy rain, insomnia, and well . . . a hurt, gorgeous, tatted-up, mostly jerky man asleep in your bed in the next room.
Your pink bed.
She grimaced. It wasn’t that pink, for goodness’ sake. The shade was so pale it was hardly a color.
She glanced at the clock. One fifteen a.m. She had work in the morning. Patients. She needed to sleep. She scooted down deeper under the covers. Her guest room was very comfortable. She’d decorated it herself in shabby chic. White and gray with accents of powder blue. Cole would’ve probably been more at home in it than the pink. But she hadn’t thought of that when she’d helped him inside out of the pouring rain. She’d just taken him into her room without thinking. It had been the closest to the front door.
Her cheeks warmed. A man in her bed. That man. Nearly naked. All that muscle over smooth, inked-up skin.
Go to sleep, Grace. Go to sleep and stop thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about. Strike that. About a certain man she shouldn’t be thinking about. A man who—if he knew what she knew about her father—would be doing everything in his power to land him in jail after forcing an interrogation on him. Forget that the ex-sheriff was nearly senile.
Closing her book and placing it on the side table, Grace switched off her light. The sound of the rain, its steady fall, had her breathing deep and easy and her eyes closing. She knew she must’ve fallen asleep, for when she woke up she felt groggy and unsure of where she was. The rain still pounded the roof and the windows of the room. The guest room, she realized.
But what was that? The other sound? Belle? Was the dog having a bad dream?
She sat up, blinked. The room was dark, but the pale light of the hallway spilled in from under the door. Her heart seized. There it was again. Not Belle. Yanking back the covers, she jumped out of bed and raced from the room. Deep moans echoed throughout the hallway. It was Cole. And he sounded like he was in pain. Shit. Maybe she should’ve called a GP to come out. Maybe she’d been too cocky about what she knew. And he’d been too stubborn about taking a few anti-inflammatories.
She opened the door in a rush, nearly upsetting Belle in her slumber on the rug, and hurried to his bedside. The light from the hall illuminated his form well enough. His massive, shirtless form. Eyes closed, he was definitely asleep. Dreaming about something awful—or was he in pain? This powerful, tattooed badass of a cowboy was groaning, writhing, fisting the covers, his stubbled jaw tight.
Her own hands balled into fists at her sides, she vacillated. Should she wake him? He was either dreaming about something disturbing or in pain. If it was the former, he could be moving around so much it could hurt his ankle further.
She leaned in and with gentle hands gripped his powerful shoulders. They felt smooth and dangerously solid against her palms and fingers.
“Cole,” she whispered. “Cole, wake up. You’re—”
The rest of what she was going to say came out in a rush of air. In one moment, her hands were on his shoulders; the next she had her back to the mattress and a man’s thigh between her legs. Breath nearly knocked out of her lungs, she stared up into the drowsy, confused face of Cole Cavanaugh. For several long seconds, they just stared at each other, breathing heavy.
“Grace?” he uttered hoarsely, as if trying to remember where he was.
She nodded furiously. “Yes.”
“Oh, Christ.” He released her instantly, rolling onto his side. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” No, he hadn’t. Hurt wasn’t at all what she was feeling in that moment. Or what she’d felt lying beneath him.
“You sure?” he asked, his anxious gaze running over her face, her white tank top and fuchsia pajama bottoms in the dim light. “What were you doing in my room?”
“Well, it’s my room actually,” she chided with a half smile.
“Your pink-ass room,” he added with a strange grin of his own. “Seriously, Grace. What’s going on?”
“You were . . . making noises,” she explained stupidly.
“Noises?”
“Groans.”
His brow lifted and another hint of a grin touched his mouth. “I was groaning in my sleep?”
“Well, yes—”
“And you came in here to see about my groans?”
His tone made her shiver. “No. Not like that. Well . . . I don’t know.”
“I’m just trying to put the pieces together here, Doc. Woman comes into the room of a sleepin’ man—a sleepin’ man who’s groaning—”
“You were having a nightmare, okay? Or you were hurt. I didn’t know. But I wanted to make sure you were all right. There was nothing sexual about it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
His expression dimmed. “A nightmare?”
“Or pain.” She studied him. “Which was it?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he rolled to his back. Grace’s eyes moved over him. Waves of hard, tanned muscle. What would it feel like under her fingers? Beneath her palms? Against her lips?
Shocked and disgusted by her thoughts, she started to sit up. “I’ll go now,” she said. “Let you get back to sleep.”
“Wait.” Cole reached for her, wrapped his hand around her wrist. “No.” Then he blew out a breath. “I mean—go, of course. Ah, shit, I don’t know what I mean.”
Confused, Grace turned to face him, rested her head in her palm. She wanted to ask him about his dream. It was clear that his troubled sleep wasn’t due to the pain in his ankle. But she felt like he didn’t want to go there with her. Could it have been about his sister? About her abduction? That must’ve wrecked all the Cavanaugh brothers, but the girl’s twin especially.
“Is it the pink?” she asked finally.
He turned his head, looked over at her. “What’s that?”
“Did your close proximity to this dreaded unmasculine color bring on the nightmares?”
She waited. Waited to see if he would open up or kick her out or pretend he didn’t understand her humor. She really wouldn’t blame him on the latter.
“You’re kinda nuts, you know that?” he said, turning onto his side to face her.
“I do know. It’s part of my charm. I mean, I’m the only one who thinks so at this point. Except for maybe Rudy, but—”
“Who’s Rudy?”
“One of my vet techs.”
Cole stared at her, something different crossing his features. Something she’d never seen in his expression before, and she couldn’t name it.
“He finds weird charming,” she continued. “Probably because he’s weird.”
“So he finds you charming.”
“No.” She laughed softly. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know. How did we get on this subject?”
“The subject of Rudy? Or guys who have a thing for you?”
Her lips parted. “I didn’t say he had a thing for me.”
“I know. I did.”
The thought of arguing the point, assuring the man not six inches away from her on the bed—her bed�
��seemed inane. Rudy was an employee and maybe a friend, nothing more. Not that it mattered. How she and Cole had gotten on this subject was anybody’s guess, but she wasn’t keen on continuing it.
“Ready for me to go back to my bed?” she asked, her chest a little tight.
“This is your bed, Doc.”
The husky way he said it made her clear her throat. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. And no, I’m not.”
Her heart jumped into her throat. “Why?”
He shifted his head on the pillow. Apart from his nearly skull-shaved blond hair, he was all dark eyes, hard cheekbones, a night’s growth of beard around lips so full and dangerous and kissable they should come with a WARNING! HIGH VOLTAGE! sign.
“Let’s just say I’m scared to be alone,” he said.
“Is that the truth?” she whispered back.
“No,” he returned with a serious look. “But can we just say it?”
A shiver moved up Grace’s spine. He wanted her to stay. In her bed with him. Sleep next to him. Cole Cavanaugh. Champion fighter, ruffian extraordinaire. Partner in truth and fear. Sometimes charming, all times sexy, a problem she really shouldn’t take on. So . . . yes or no? Stay or go? Pink or blue?
“What’s wrong, Doc?” he asked, his eyes probing in the dim light.
Outside, the rain had tapered off to continual sprinkles against the windowpanes. “You’re going to laugh at me.”
Instead of saying, No, of course I won’t or Don’t be silly, he offered a very tough-ass “So what if I do?”
“I don’t want you to laugh at me,” she said simply. “It’ll make me feel uncomfortable, and weird.”
His lips ticked up at the corners. “But we’ve already established you’re weird. Or Rudy has, at any rate.”
“Argh . . . forget it,” she said, starting to sit up again.
Cole reached for her and eased her back down to face him. This time, his expression was serious. “I won’t laugh.”
They were close. Closer than a moment ago. Too close. She chewed her lip, wondering if she could make something up real quick. Maybe something about needing the whole bed for her rare sleeping disease . . . or . . . Fine. “I’ve never slept in the same bed with a guy before.” There. There it was. She’d said it.
Cue the laughter.
But there wasn’t any. Not even a smirk. Only mild surprise. “Really?”
She nodded.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to look at her.
“You think it’s weird, right?” she said. God, why did she care?
“No, Doc,” he said softly. “I think it’s nice.”
Nice.
Neither one of them said anything more. Neither one of them moved. Grace let her gaze travel from his eyes to his lips, then close. That’s how she fell asleep, her face just inches away from the last man in the world she’d ever have believed would be her first.
Sleeping companion, that is.
* * *
Warmth infused Cole, and he sank deeper beneath the covers. He wanted more—more of whatever that was. Her? Had she stayed with him all night? Was it her skin that radiated such heat?
As his mind slowly returned to reality, he opened his eyes. White ceiling, pale pink walls, sunlit black-and-white photographs of dogs, a snoring basset hound beside him on the bed. Hadn’t Belle been on the floor, on the rug, before he’d dropped off? How the hell had she gotten up here with those short legs? Maybe someone had slipped out and slipped the dog in. His gut pulled slightly. So she didn’t stick around. Big deal. She wasn’t meant to. She wasn’t his. Christ . . . at most, she might become a friend.
“Good morning,” her voice called to him from the doorway.
Cole turned, let his still slightly muddled gaze skim over her. She was freshly showered, wearing her scrubs and carrying a tray. Must be headed into work. Her pretty face was free of makeup, except maybe something glossing her lips. And her hair was down, hanging loose and lovely at her shoulders.
Yep. Friend. They could manage that now, couldn’t they? After sharing a bed, airspace, a mutual love of BB guns.
He pushed out of his mind the strange urge he had to yank back the covers, leap from the bed, and kiss her, and instead called, “Mornin’, Doc.”
Her smile was a little shy as she came over to the bed and placed the tray down on his lap.
“What’s this here?” he asked, taking in the covered plate.
“Breakfast.”
“You didn’t need to do that.” He couldn’t recall the last time someone had brought him breakfast in bed. Maybe because it was such an intimate thing to do—and Cole Cavanaugh steered clear of all things intimate. They brought on a desire to swap war stories, find weaknesses, root out emotions that were dead and buried. Like his sister.
“It’s no trouble,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
She meant his ankle. He moved it, tried to circle the foot. Grit his teeth against the pain that remained. Son of a bitch. “I’m fine.”
Her brows lifted and she cocked her head to the side. “I don’t believe you. Your face says different.”
“Don’t go analyzing me, Doc.”
“Can I take a look, though?”
The woman was as stubborn as a tick. With immodesty born of years of locker rooms and weigh-ins, he pulled back the covers, trying not to cover up Belle, who was snoring like a buzz saw. Granted, she’d helped him undress last night. Checked him out thoroughly—well, his hurting parts anyway—but what was going on now was an altogether different kind of checking out. In fact, Cole thought with a dry grin, what the good doctor was doing could be considered ogling.
“My ankle’s down there, Doc,” he said with a soft chuckle.
Cole had never seen cheeks flush so fast. And such a pretty pink. Hmm . . . maybe the color was growing on him.
Her head came up and her eyes met his. She looked positively mortified.
“See something you like?” he asked.
Her eyes widened and her chin lifted haughtily. “I think you must’ve bumped your head, Cole. It’s far too inflated this morning.”
He grinned and picked up a piece of toast. “Nothing wrong with lookin’ or admirin’, Grace. I’m doing it right now, in fact.”
She looked down at her scrubs as if she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “I have to go to work this morning.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“But I’ll be back by eleven. We can continue what we started before the unfortunate accident. Brainstorm on how we could locate Sweet. Maybe we can bring the boxes in here—”
“I can’t stay, Doc,” he cut in mildly. “I have to get to Austin. I’ve got training at noon.”
She looked confused. “At noon? You can’t possibly get there—”
“Deac’s flyin’ me in on his chopper. He’s got some business there today.”
“But your ankle is still inflamed.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He’d trained on worse. Broken ribs, broken toe. Shit, the latter hurt worse than anything.
Her hands went to her hips. “How important is this fight next week?”
Cole exhaled. The fight. The goddamned fight with Fred Omega Fontana—the one bastard he’d never beaten. There was something about this fight, coming right now, when things were unsettled at the ranch and questions were being raised about Cass’s murder. Before Everett’s passing, beating Fontana was like beating anyone. A need to win, a need to feel strong and capable and feared. But now . . . it was as if Fred Fontana represented that faceless piece of shit who’d stolen his girl, his twin, his other half all those years ago. And every time he beat Cole, it was like letting Cass down again and again.
But next week, he’d make Cass proud.
He’d find a whisper of peace within his g
uilty, pained soul.
His eyes caught and held Grace’s. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just wondering,” she said lightly. “Because training on that ankle could easily make it worse. Give your opponent the advantage. So if this fight is as important as I’m guessing it is, you’re better off resting another day.” She shrugged. “Then hitting it hard tomorrow.”
He raised a brow. “Hitting it hard, Doc?”
She shrugged. “Isn’t that fighter speak? Hit it hard? Pound it in? Oh, I don’t know. I saw Rocky once . . .” Her voice trailed off as she laughed softly at herself.
“You just want to keep me here, don’t you?” he asked.
“Well . . .” she stammered.
“In your bed, I mean.”
Her cheeks flushed again. Yep, pink was growing on him. And there it went, into his mind . . . wondering what else on her was flushing pink.
“I have to go,” she said, backing up away from him, like he was a bomb about to detonate. And maybe he was. “Clearly Belle has decided to stay with you instead of coming to work with me,” she added, glancing at the still snoring dog, one long ear draped over her eyes.
“Puttin’ her on guard duty?” he asked.
“I don’t think you need a guard,” she said, her back coming to rest against the door. “I think you’ll always do what you want. No matter the consequences.”
Some of the heat building inside him cooled. What did she mean by that? And why did she think she knew him? She didn’t know him. Not even close. And she never would.
“It’s up to you, of course,” she concluded. “But I hope to see you when I get home.”
When she was gone, down the hall, and out the front door, Cole swung his legs over the side of the bed. Granted, the woman had been good to him, setting him up, feeding him, doctoring as well as an animal doc could. But she didn’t understand how things went in his world. You worked with and through injury.
He ignored the heaviness in his ankle as his feet touched down on wood. But what he couldn’t ignore, as he stood up and walked around the side of the bed, was the pounding of blood and the ache. Sure, he could train on it. But the vet was right. If he injured it further, he was giving the advantage to Fontana. Anyone else and he’d go through with it—but he couldn’t risk losing this match.