He kicked off his boots and stripped off his work shirt. His T-shirt wasn’t as trashed. He let the cold water run in the sink before he scrubbed his face and neck.
Then he sat down on the edge of the other double bed and watched her. Her chest rose and fell regularly, and she wasn’t wincing, so that was good. Hopefully, it was just the one rib.
He stretched out on top of the covers and tried to sleep. He didn’t, though. Normally, he could sleep at the drop of a hat. Anywhere he could catch fifteen minutes, he’d close his eyes and zone out.
Not today. He heard her gentle breathing from the other bed. He couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d hit her, the way she’d fallen apart in the tent—and the way she refused to go to the hospital.
He sat up and scrubbed his hand through his hair. She still hadn’t moved. He’d feel better, he decided, if he could reassure himself that she was okay.
He got up and walked around the far side of her bed. When he lay down—on top of the covers—she stirred. “Hmm?”
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
“Hmm,” she repeated, turning her head toward him. She managed to work one hand free of the blankets.
He wrapped his hand around hers and gave it a little squeeze. Her hand was warm and small in his. She had these moments of vulnerability that killed him. “I’m here,” he whispered again.
She sighed and was still again, except for her steady breathing.
He’d be right here when she woke up.
He’d promised.
* * *
SHE WASN’T ALONE.
This realization was startling—so startling, in fact, that her eyes popped open.
She was always alone. She’d never even had a puppy who’d climbed into bed with her. Mom hadn’t wanted any animals in the house. Lacy had struggled sharing a dorm room in college because it meant listening to another person breathe.
And yet, there was someone doing just that in the bed—holding her hand.
For a second, she panicked. Who was touching her? Where was she?
She tensed and a dull pain stabbed her chest. The ache brought a measure of consciousness with it—her rib. She’d broken it.
Wreck. The trailer. The pipe.
Ian.
She turned her head. Ian was next to her. Holding her hand. His other hand was tucked under his head—even at this angle, she could see his massive muscles. His eyes were closed.
She was in bed. Sleeping with Ian Tall Chief. Okay, so yeah, they were both still dressed and—she tried to assess the situation without moving—it appeared she’d been tucked in and he was on top of the covers.
Still, her heart pounded. What was a girl supposed to do when she woke up in bed with a man she didn’t exactly remember going to sleep with?
Then Ian’s eyes opened.
She couldn’t get her eyes closed so she could pretend she was still asleep. All she could do was watch in a mix of horror and fascination as Ian blinked a couple of times and turned his head in her direction.
“Hey,” he mumbled sleepily.
Then he stretched out like a cat. Without letting go of her hand, his body lengthened, every muscle taut and tight. She wanted to lick him. Just run her tongue over his body and taste him.
Wait—no—no, she did not. No licking. No touching. No nothing.
Then Ian’s other hand swung out over his head. It was like watching a symphony of muscles work together in perfect time.
Something she dimly recognized as want tightened her muscles in response to his body’s movements. She had a vague memory of Ian saying, “Let me do this for you.”
This could still be a dream, she decided as Ian rolled onto his side without letting go of her hand. This could be a dream like the one she’d had where she stripped him out of his wet T-shirt. And if it was, she was going to do a hell of a lot of licking.
“How do you feel?” he asked when he had himself settled—only inches away.
Not a dream. Oh, hell—now what?
“Okay.”
He smiled at her, a small movement that felt intimate nonetheless. She was in bed with Ian and that might not be a bad thing.
He was so close she could feel his breath on her skin. “How’s the rib?” he asked. Then—oh, Lord—he moved. His hand hovered over her sore rib—over her right breast. He was going to touch her.
Please. Don’t.
The two thoughts collided in her head like a high-speed wreck.
He didn’t touch her. Instead, he pulled his hand back and laid it along his thigh.
“A little sore. Nothing I can’t handle,” she added. She was pretty sure she was back to “prickly” again.
He took it that way, too. “Yeah, you’re all right.” Then, God help her, he stretched again.
Her rib began to throb with the physical effort of not licking him. But the pain was good. It pulled her out of the crazy fantasy in her head where she ran her hands over his body, where she grabbed his shirt and pulled, where—
He propped himself up on his hand and looked at her as if he expected her to do something. If only she knew what.
“If you want,” he said in that voice that was way more than friendly but wasn’t quite romantic, “you can take a shower.”
Her face got real hot, real fast. “A...shower?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with humor. “Yes. A shower. You’ll feel better after,” he added. “The heat will relax your muscles.”
Did she look that bad or—worse—smell that bad? And was this a solo shower or a group thing? “Um...”
“I’ll get us some dinner while you’re in the bathroom,” he went on, as if she weren’t dying of embarrassment. “I can check your ribs when you’re out. I brought your bag in, so you have clean clothes. Then we’ll head to the arena. Does that sound like a plan?”
“Um...” she repeated, feeling stupid. Here she was, wondering if he was in bed with her because he’d read her mind about maybe sort of wanting some no-strings sex so she wouldn’t have to think for a while, and he was over there making perfectly reasonable plans for the rest of the night.
God, she was an idiot.
Ian raised his eyebrows as he waited for a coherent reply. “Yeah,” she agreed, afraid to move her other hand because the way he was lying—she might brush something. “No, yeah—a shower sounds great.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to wash your hair yourself?” He sounded pretty normal, considering what he’d implied—that if she couldn’t, he would wash her hair for her—but then his gaze drifted up and the next thing she knew, he’d lifted his hand and wrapped a curl around his finger and said, “Beautiful,” like a prayer.
No, she must have heard him wrong. “It’s a mess,” she said, which was part knee-jerk reaction and part the truth. Her hair never did what she wanted it to.
“Why do you always wear the hat?”
“I don’t wear the hat in bed,” she defended—and then felt her own head to see if she had her hat on. Nothing but hair. “Right. No hats in bed.”
He grinned at her. She couldn’t help but notice that he still had a lock of hair wrapped around his finger. “Do you have a position on hats in the shower?”
She gave him as sharp a look as she could pull off, given the circumstances.
“No, then.” He gave her hair a light tug, then let it slip over his fingers. There was something sensual about the movement of her hair over his skin. But she managed not to shiver. “Will you need help?”
There was a part of her that wanted to say yes. Then Ian would have to help her into the shower and wash her hair and...
And she wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to worry—at least for a little bit. She could get lost in the feeling of his hands on her bo
dy. It’d work. Hell, waking up with his hand in hers had nearly short-circuited her brain.
But there was a bigger part of her that wanted to shave her legs and her armpits before she did anything ridiculous such as attempt any level of nudity in front of Ian Tall Chief.
“I think I can manage.”
He nodded as if this were the answer he’d expected. “I’ll carry your bag into the bathroom.”
He did more than that. He got the water running and the hotel soaps and shampoos where she could reach them and he laid the towels out, too.
“Pizza okay?” he asked as he stood back to let her into the steamy bathroom. “Figured I’d call it in and we’d pick it up on our way back to the arena.”
That made her pause. She’d thought he was going to leave the room—not stay within earshot. “That’s fine. I like sausage and peppers.”
“Got it. If you need help, call,” he said, closing the door behind her.
The mirror had already started to steam up and Lacy was itching to get into the shower. Suddenly she could feel the dirt ground into her skin.
But she stood for a minute, surveying the damage as best she could in the foggy mirror.
Oh, yeah—her hair was a mess. Bits of dirt and twigs were stuck on the right side and the left had the familiar slept-on-it-wrong flatness to it. But that wasn’t all. She had dirt smeared along the right side of her face; the circles under her eyes were a dull blue.
God, she looked like hell.
And this was what Ian had been curled up next to in bed. This was the hair he’d been playing with.
This was what he’d called beautiful.
Well. He was full of crap.
Her rib pulled as she tried to get the white tank top over her head. She had to hold her breath and lean against the counter until the pain subsided, but she did it.
She got her bra off using her left hand. The jeans and everything else weren’t too bad, if she sat on the toilet and kicked out of them.
Then she grabbed her face soap and her razor and climbed into the shower. The steam enveloped her, and she stood there for she didn’t know how long, letting the hot water run over her.
She knew she needed to formulate some sort of plan. She had an empty bank account and a whole lot of weekend left to go. She needed to call Murph, her hired hand, and tell him what had happened, ask him to cull some of the heifers he thought would bring a decent price.
But that’s not what she was thinking about as the water hit her skin, lulling her into a warm, soft daze.
Ian had been in bed with her. But on top of the covers. He’d touched her while she’d been passed out—but just to hold her hand. And he’d touched her while she was awake—but just her hair.
And she wanted him. But she didn’t see how being selfish enough to have him would get her anywhere.
Honey, I know you can do better than this.
Her mother’s voice rose up from the steam, unbidden and—for the first time—unwanted. Lacy didn’t want to think about how her parents would be disappointed in her if she sought a little comfort in Ian’s arms. She didn’t want to think about what that said about her.
She didn’t want every single thing she did to feel like it carried the weight of the world.
She pushed the thoughts of the box and the truth out of her mind and focused on the task before her. Washing with soap was not a big deal. But washing her hair? Ugh. Ian had been right.
She would not call him in, though. She could handle this.
Shaving her legs wasn’t too bad, but she had to give up on her right armpit after almost cutting herself. Then she rinsed off and let the water beat on her back for a little bit longer.
She didn’t want to get out because that would mean she had to make a decision about Ian—did she need his help getting dressed? Did she want something more than a little help?
Lacy Evans—the old Lacy, the girl she’d been before her parents died by the side of the road—would not even consider “something more,” no matter what.
But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Maybe she’d never really been that girl. Maybe she was her mother’s daughter—her real mother’s daughter.
After all she’d found out, she didn’t know who she was supposed to be anymore, but she was sure about one thing.
She wasn’t going to figure it out in Ian’s arms.
She turned the water off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ONE. TWO. THREE...
“The Cubs have made several off-season roster moves. With more on this developing story...”
Four. Five. Six.
Ian did push-ups at a punishing pace as he tried to focus on SportsCenter. Spring training was happening soon. He should be able to focus—it was SportsCenter, for God’s sake. He loved this show.
But it wasn’t enough to distract his thoughts from Lacy. In the shower. Nude.
Ordering the pizza hadn’t distracted him, either. It’d only taken five minutes and Lacy was still in the shower with the water running over her naked body. He’d turned on the television. Loudly.
He made it to a hundred in record time before his arms began to scream in protest, yet he couldn’t stop picturing her running a soapy washcloth over her bare breasts, down her stomach.
Sit-ups. A lot of them.
He couldn’t stop thinking about how sweet and soft she’d looked lying in bed with him—how she’d had to feel her head to make sure she hadn’t slept in her hat.
How she’d blushed when he’d asked if she’d need help in the shower. How he’d wanted to bury his hand in her wild head of hair and had somehow restrained himself to one curl wrapped around his finger.
Friends, he repeated in his head over and over. They were friends.
This was the natural reaction to the long drought he’d been in, right? Months since he’d last been with a woman combined with his natural attraction to Lacy, with her way of looking at him with part innocence, part lust...
This was not helping. He rolled over and went back to the push-ups.
Then the water shut off. He stood up and, breathing hard, listened.
She didn’t call out his name, which was probably for the best, dammit all. He could hear her moving around. Good. She wasn’t in so much pain that she needed his help. Wonderful.
“Ian?”
He was at the bathroom door in less than a second. “I’m right here.”
“Do you...” She paused, and he could imagine the look on her face—that innocence, that stubbornness. “Do you need to check my ribs?”
“I think it’d be a good idea. You had a hell of an adrenaline rush earlier and you might not have noticed if there was something else wrong. You barely felt the broken rib at first, remember?”
The door cracked open before he was ready. Steam poured out. Her hair—lord. It was still wet and it hung down longer than he ever would have imagined. Big, fat droplets of water swelled at the end of soft ringlets and dripped down onto—
He wasn’t sure if he was still breathing because she had on a plain white tank top that outlined her body with exquisite detail. It was like looking at a different woman. Gone was the prickly cowgirl who’d told him off on multiple occasions. And in her place—
His blood pounded in his veins as he snapped his eyes back to her face. Friends, friends, friends.
“Okay,” she said, seemingly oblivious to his sudden inability to do anything but stare at her like a hormone-crazed teenager. “I got my tank top on, but it kind of hurt.” Her mouth twisted to one side. “And I couldn’t get my hair very dry.”
He pushed the door open a bit and snagged a towel off the counter. “Here,” he said, and there was no missing the way his voice had dropped down an octave. “Let me.”
She turned around and h
e began to towel off her hair. “It’s longer than I thought,” he managed to say.
“It’s the curl. It’s much longer when it’s wet. Then, when it dries—poof!” She tried to use her hands to show him exactly how much her hair would poof, but she only got the right hand up about halfway to her head. “Ow,” she muttered, dropping her hands back down. “And a hair dryer only makes it worse,” she finished weakly. “I don’t even own one.”
“I’m impressed you got it washed.”
“That makes two of us.”
As he toweled her hair, it did indeed start to “poof” up. He dropped the towel on the ground and put his hands on her back.
She tensed and sucked in a tight breath. “Just feeling your ribs,” he muttered, almost as much to himself as to her. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
“Okay.”
Slowly, he pressed his way down her back and then fanned his hands out along her ribs. She didn’t gasp or anything, which was a great sign.
And then it hit him.
No bra.
He must have done something to clue her in to his realization because she suddenly said, “I couldn’t get it hooked,” as if she was confessing a crime. “And I figured, I’m going to sit in a truck by myself all night, anyway, so—”
“No, you’re not.” Because it was much, much safer to think about Lacy in a truck, fully clothed with many layers of tops and maybe a sexless jacket, just to be safe, than it was to think about the soft woman whose body was under his hands.
“I’m...not?” She cleared her throat. “Yes, I am. That’s why I agreed to coming back to this hotel with you in the first place—so I can stay up and watch my bulls—”
“You’re not sitting alone,” he interrupted. Then he stepped back and settled his hands around her waist. He turned her around and backed her up against the door frame. She let him. Her eyes were huge. He didn’t let go. “I don’t know what kind of man you think I am, but I’m not about to let a woman who’s so beat-up that she can’t dry her own hair sit alone in a truck in the middle of what’s essentially a crime scene and wait for the bad guys to come back.”
“But—”
Harlequin Superromance May 2016 Box Set Page 37