by Susan Stoker
She looked up into Dane’s face and his gray eyes pierced into her soul. She couldn’t decipher the look, but a deal was a deal. And he’d more than kept his end of the bargain.
Grabbing the edge of her T-shirt, she pulled it up to her chin without hesitation, showing Dane the plain white cotton bra she’d put on hours earlier.
He didn’t say a word, instead bringing his right hand up to her chest and running his index finger along the edge of the cup, not touching her skin but making goosebumps rise on her arms nevertheless.
When he continued to run his finger up and down the edge of her bra, making her more than nervous, Bryn told him, “They aren’t big. They’re only B cups. Forty-four percent of American women are this size, and less than one percent are larger than a D. Men seem to think every woman should have huge breasts, but really, we don’t have a choice in the matter, it’s all genetics. Except of course if someone has breast augmentation.”
Without taking his eyes off her chest, Dane said, “They’re perfect for your size, Smalls. Any bigger and you’d be top-heavy. You’ve got enough for a man to be able to squeeze and plump, and that’s what’s important. I bet they’re sensitive.” His finger followed the edge of the cup to the hollow between her breasts and he moved it a scant few millimeters, until it rested on her skin rather than the cotton material.
Bryn shivered at the feel of his touch on her sensitive bare skin. She’d had men suck and squeeze her breasts, but all it took was one brief touch of Dane’s finger along her bra to make her nipples pucker and push against the cotton.
“Uh, thanks. I didn’t mean to imply that I wanted large breasts, but some men seem to be attracted only to women who are more healthily endowed than I am.”
When Dane licked his lips and leaned closer, obviously seeing the effect his touch had on her and wanting to do more than look, Bryn abruptly stood and moved away from the bed, letting her shirt cover her once more.
As much as Dane fascinated her, and as strongly as she suddenly wanted to feel his hands on her skin, she couldn’t do it when he was intoxicated and had no idea who she was. It wasn’t right or fair. He’d hate himself if he remembered it was her that he’d touched.
His eyes moved up to hers again and he held out his hand. “Join me?”
“You’re drunk. Too drunk to have sex.”
He chuckled. “Unfortunately, I know. Just talk.”
Bryn eyed him sideways, then nodded. She could no sooner walk away from this man and the feelings he aroused in her than she could pass by a homeless person begging on the street. She walked around to the other side of the bed and eased down on top of the covers next to him. “What do you want to talk about?”
“What’s your name?”
“Bryn Hartwell.”
“Pretty.”
Bryn shrugged. “It’s just a name.”
“I’m thirty. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Dane brought his hand up to her face and smoothed her hair off her cheek and behind her ear. “Where did you come from?”
As usual, Bryn took his question literally. “My parents met when they were in their late twenties and fell in love. I was born not too long after their wedding.”
His lips quirked up, but he didn’t say anything else.
“You were hurt in the Army?” she asked, breaking the slightly awkward silence.
Dane nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
They were both quiet for a long moment. Finally, he murmured, “The room is spinning. I’m gonna pass out. But thank you for bringing me home. And for showing me your tits. You’re beautiful. Much too pretty for the likes of me.”
“You’re welcome,” Bryn whispered, wanting to protest the last part, but sucking in a breath when his hand came toward her again.
Dane took hold of a length of her hair and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. “Smells so good.”
It was the last thing he said to her before the alcohol did its thing. Bryn watched as Dane’s eyes closed and his hand went lax, her hair falling out of his grip.
She lay there for ten more minutes, watching Dane’s chest rise and fall, before finally taking a breath and getting out of the bed. The last thing she wanted was to act like the stalker and freak he’d accused her of being. But she knew the moment she left his house, the real world would intrude on the feeling she had right now.
He most likely wouldn’t remember anything that had happened tonight, and if and when she did see him again, he’d be back to thinking she was a weirdo he wanted nothing to do with. She knew she’d hold the experience of his finger on her skin and his beautiful words close to her heart for a long time to come.
Moving around the house, Bryn did what she could to make his morning a little easier, knowing scientifically what alcohol did to the human body, and then left the house through the garage. She then exited through the door on the side, making sure to lock it behind her as she left.
Bryn walked to the end of the driveway and looked back one last time. She’d left the hall light on but couldn’t even make out the shape of the house, other than the slight light shining through the front window. She knew there were trees rising behind the roof and she could smell the fresh, clean air. Dane’s house was his getaway from the world. She loved it. It was peaceful and made her feel as though reality was far away. Bringing her hand up to massage her chest over her heart, Bryn closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.
She didn’t know how it happened, but she had a huge crush on the man, even after only talking with him twice…and he thought she was a freak. When his guard was down, she saw the gentlemanly, caring, and sensitive man underneath the gruff and scarred exterior, and he’d been nice to her. Had treated her as if she was a desirable woman rather than a stranger or, worse yet, a weirdo stalker.
Squaring her shoulders, Bryn turned away from the house, shoved her hands into her pockets, and started walking back to the bar and her vehicle. Even though it was pitch dark, it shouldn’t be an issue. It was only three miles.
Heedless of the dangers a lone woman might encounter in the middle of the night, Bryn set off, trying not to think about what would happen when she saw Dane again.
Chapter Four
Dane groaned as he turned over and the morning light shone into his eyes as if a laser beam was aiming directly at his pupils.
“Fuck,” he swore as he quickly rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his face. Feeling nauseous, he took a few deep breaths, trying to control the urge to throw up. When he thought he had enough control that he wouldn’t vomit all over his sheets, he slowly turned his head to see what time it was…and blinked.
Sitting next to the clock on the little table next to the bed was a glass of water, two large tablets and two small. There was also a note. Dane reached out slowly, careful not to jostle his head, and picked it up.
* * *
I’m sure you feel like crap. Put the Alka-Seltzer tablets in the glass and when they dissolve, drink it all down. It has sodium bicarbonate, which will help settle your stomach and make you not wanna throw up, and the aspirin will help your headache.
* * *
That was it. It wasn’t signed and had no other information about what the hell he’d done last night. Dane closed his eyes and tried to recall anything past arriving at the hole-in-the-wall bar he’d impulsively pulled into. He’d been driving home from Post Falls, where he’d gone to grocery shop.
The trip had been a disaster. It was too early, there were too many people, even in the small town northwest of Coeur d’Alene, and he’d been too damn keyed up to finish his shopping. After going up and down three aisles, he’d simply put down his basket and left. The storm that had roared in as he was driving home didn’t help the feeling that he’d never be normal again. Even though storms didn’t usually send him over the edge, every clap of thunder made him flinch and the lightning reminded him of the flashes of light from the bomb that had killed his friends and ruined his life
. Feeling defeated and sorry for himself, he’d stopped at the bar on the outskirts of Rathdrum and proceeded to get shit-faced drunk.
Other than a bartender who needed an attitude adjustment and a waitress who had seemed to want to go home with him—until she’d seen his stump—the rest of the night was a complete blank.
Feeling sick, now for more reasons than the leftover alcohol in his bloodstream, Dane forced himself to scoot upright in the bed. He picked up the tablets and dropped them into the glass of water, watching dispassionately as they bubbled and fizzed. When it looked like they were done releasing their hangover cure into the water, he drank it in three large gulps.
Dane couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home. When he first woke up he figured the bartender had probably called a cab or something for him. But after seeing the note and medicine on the table next to him, the cabbie idea was out. He sighed, trying to figure out how he was going to get his truck. It was most likely sitting in the parking lot of the bar. At least he hoped it was.
Thinking it was a good sign that he didn’t hear anyone in his small house, Dane eased his legs over the side of the mattress and carefully stood.
He wavered, but remained upright. Deciding that he’d need coffee if he was going to be remotely human in the next four hours, he stumbled out of his bedroom and down the hall into the living room. Focusing on the kitchen, he grabbed hold of the granite countertop as soon as he neared it. Thank God for open floorplans. He reached for the coffeepot—and paused with his hand in the air as if frozen.
Another note.
* * *
I figured you’d need coffee first thing. Just hit start. It’s ready to go.
* * *
After pushing the green “on” button, Dane picked up the second note to examine it. The writing was slanted slightly to the right without any embellishments. It looked like a man’s handwriting, but somehow Dane knew it wasn’t. How, he couldn’t have said, but there was a memory at the edge of his mind that told him whoever had brought him home, and left him notes, had been a woman.
He looked down at himself. He was wearing a pair of boxers and that was it. Feeling self-conscious for the first time, Dane scratched the stump on his left arm absently. He never went to bed without wearing a shirt anymore. Ever. But here he stood. Practically naked.
Without waiting for the coffee to finish, Dane went back to his room and looked around. The clothes he’d been wearing yesterday were nowhere to be seen. Fuck. Having a feeling what he’d find, he went to his dirty clothes hamper. Empty. Except for another fucking note.
* * *
Your hamper was full, and your clothes stunk from all the cigarette smoke, so I started a load. Don’t forget to move the clothes to the dryer, otherwise they’ll mold and smell nasty.
* * *
Whoever it was had done his laundry.
Definitely a woman.
Had she seen his arm?
His scars?
God, he felt pathetic. First, he’d gotten drunk enough to black out for the first time since he’d gotten back from the mission that had changed his life forever, and now he was bemoaning the fact a chick had seen his scars.
Damn. Had he fucked her? Shit. Had he hurt her? Kicked her out? Not used a condom? He’d always been careful. Always. In fact, he hadn’t been with anyone since he’d been hurt, hadn’t had the slightest urge to get naked with anyone. Had being drunk made him lose his inhibitions enough to get laid? He hoped not. He’d never been a man-whore, and his stomach turned at the thought.
Dane turned toward the bed and ran his eyes over it. There it was—a head-shaped indentation in the pillow on the far side of the bed. The one he never slept on. He felt even sicker than a moment before. Damn, damn, damn.
He opened the drawer next to his side of the bed and looked inside. The box of condoms he’d bought on a whim over two months ago after Truck’s urging to get back in the saddle was sitting right where he’d left it. Unopened. The sight of it relieved him a bit, although it was possible he’d been drunk enough to not even think about gloving up. Shit.
As if in a trance, he walked over to the side of the bed where someone had obviously lain the night before, and picked up the pillow. He brought it to his face and inhaled.
The smell of coconut assailed his nostrils, and Dane felt his dick twitch in his boxers. He lifted his head and looked down at himself in disbelief. With a hangover from hell, his head feeling as if someone was pounding on it from the inside, his stomach rebelling against him with every breath, it was almost unbelievable that the scent of a woman on his pillow could still give him a woody. He brought it up to his face once again and breathed in the smell that reminded him of the beach…of suntan lotion and woman.
Smalls.
The name popped into his brain as if the smell of coconut had conjured it up. He didn’t know anything about her other than the way she smelled and the nickname he’d bestowed on her, but Dane knew without a doubt that the woman who’d done his laundry, pre-made his coffee, and left him Alka-Seltzer tablets to help his hangover—and had given him a hard-on for the first time in forever—was one and the same.
He had a sudden vision of a woman with brown hair lying next to him on the bed. She’d been fully dressed and he was smelling her hair. He relaxed a bit. He still wasn’t positive, but he had a feeling they hadn’t had sex. He sighed in relief and a little bit of disappointment. Which was fucked; no way did he ever want to take a woman and not remember it. Somehow, he knew to the very marrow of his bones that being inside the mystery woman would be fucking amazing.
Dropping the pillow on the bed, Dane wandered back down the hall and opened the door to the garage. After everything else, he wasn’t all that surprised to find Miss May was there, and he walked around his truck, checking for damage. Nothing. There was another note stuck to the driver’s side window, however.
* * *
Miss May is safe. No damage done.
* * *
He smirked. She was funny. He had no idea if she was trying to be funny when she’d written the note, but it was obvious they’d had a conversation at some point about the nickname for his truck. He hadn’t dated, or even met, one woman who would voluntarily use a ridiculous nickname thought up by a man for his truck.
Dane opened the driver’s side door and stared at the seat. It was pulled all the way forward; no way he’d be able to fit behind the wheel with it in that position. He nodded, pleased. So he hadn’t driven himself home. Thank God.
Smalls.
The name rattling around in his head made a lot more sense now. If the position of his truck seat was anything to go by, she was probably only a few inches above five feet…if that.
A vision of a slight woman hovered around the edges of his consciousness. Deciding not to push it—he’d remember when he least expected it, hopefully—Dane went back inside. He poured a cup of coffee, smiling at how strong Smalls had made it, and headed into his tiny laundry room. He moved his clothes from the washer to the dryer, as ordered, and started it.
It wasn’t until around two in the afternoon that he finally started to feel human again. The woman had been right, the Alka-Seltzer had gone a long way toward making him feel better. That and the coffee, and eventually the pasta he’d made himself for lunch. How in the hell he’d gone thirty years without knowing about the magical hangover cure that was Alka-Seltzer was beyond him.
Deciding to have spaghetti made him think about the woman from the grocery store and their encounter. How, even though he’d been irritated about her following him, he’d somehow thought she was cute when she’d spouted off facts about carbohydrates and his eating habits. Then he remembered the words he’d hurled at her as well. Dane knew he’d been feeling vulnerable and paranoid when he’d met her, but it didn’t make the words he’d hurt her with any less fucked up.
Remembering the conversation they’d had while standing in the pancake aisle, where she’d offered her name to try to make him feel more at ease, jo
gged his memory of the mystery woman from the night before—also telling him her name was Bryn.
Bryn was an unusual name. There was almost no chance that there were two women he’d met in the last week in the small city of Rathdrum who had the same name.
Remembering her name was all it took. Everything about the night before clicked into place as if it hadn’t been hidden behind an alcoholic daze for the last few hours.
Bryn Hartwell. The woman who’d showed up in the bar, driven him home, examined his stump so tenderly—with fascination instead of disgust—and who had held up her shirt so he could check out her tits—it was only fair, after all—was the same woman he’d called a freak and accused of stalking him.
Dane wasn’t sure what to think. He was having a hard time understanding exactly why she’d done what she had for him last night, especially the peep show she’d freely given him, when he’d been such a dick to her.
Before he could examine her actions and try to make sense of them, his phone rang. Glad for the distraction, Dane saw Truck’s name and quickly connected.
“Hey, Truck.”
“Dane. How’s it going? How’s your stalker?”
“I swear to God you’re spooky sometimes.”
“How so?”
“I was just thinking about her, then you call and that’s the first thing you bring up. It’s uncanny.”
“Yeah, that’s me. The spook. So what made you think about her? Last time we talked, you said she’d quit her job at the grocery store so you could shop there without feeling awkward. She go back on that? She still there?”