water buffalo, trammeling her insides to mush.
Come on, this is so not fair, fate. Really not fair.
“Light is on your left,” he called.
“Got it.” She walked through the door and ran her hand over the wall to find the switch, flicking it on. If she hoped to discover any clues about the mysterious man,this room wasn’t yielding answers. There was a full-sized four-poster bed covered with a plain green down comforter, a framed poster of Mount Whitney, a bedside table with a half-full glass of water. And then . . . oh. Okay. Now we are talking.
Two large pine bookshelves bracketed either side of the window, stuffed with books. Many she recognized. Many she had sent herself.
Never ina million years did she expect to ever see them again.
As she stood, staring at the titles, she became aware of something else. The room smelled good.
It smelled like him .
“See anything you like?” With the light on, his face was clear for the first time that night. None of those rough features could ever be described as handsome. But he had that quality, the elusive and indefinablespark that made you look a second time, everything an interesting paradox. Wide brutal lips, but at the same time, the idea of them fastened to her skin made her dizzy. His hair tumbled in every direction, thick, dark, and shaggy, grazing his shirt’s collar, and yet the texture invited touch, and those eyes held a magnetic longing, as if compelling her to give . . . what?
Good God, get ittogether, woman. He’d notice her legs shaking in another second, rattling the floorboard. “Anything I like? Um . . . yes . . . this.” She grabbed blindly, realizing it was Grimm’s Fairy Tales . Good enough.
“Interesting choice,” he rumbled. “Those stories were darker than I expected.”
It had been a long time since she had read any Grimm, but vague recollections hung over her. “They arepretty macabre, huh? Death. Doom. Old ladies snacking on young children, etcetera.” She rubbed the front cover to avoid his intense scrutiny. The book seemed oddly perfect, like of course she’d read a fairy tale on such a windblown wintry night, hunkered in a little lost cabin down a strange lane, haunted by a brooding man who—
Dad coughed from the kitchen as a flood of guilt doused her warmheart in a cold splash of realism. What was she doing? Romantic thoughts had no place in her real world.
Not when she had to take care of Dad, handle his affairs. Not to mention that her own brain might be a ticking time bomb.
Better to keep her dreams confined to imagination. Live vicariously through plucky bluestockings and dashing dukes or wolf shifters or alpha tycoons. Those men mightbe dangerous on the page, but they were safe for a bookworm like her.
“You okay?” His deep voice broke up her train of thought.
She snapped up her head. “Huh?”
“I asked if you were okay. You made a face.”
“What kind?”
“A thinking one.” A note of amusement clung to his words.
She squashed her brows together, readjusting her glasses. Was he making fun of her? “Newsflash,I do have a brain.”
“I wasn’t hinting you were a scarecrow.”
She stared, lost.
He scanned the shelf and plucked another title, holding it up while arching a brow. The Wizard of Oz .
“Oh. Right. If I only had a brain.” Duh. “I’m not really winning any Mensa awards tonight.”
“You’re tired and worried.” He shelved the book. “Go take care of your dad and then think about gettingsome shut-eye yourself. You look as if you could use it. My bed is free.”
If she was befuddled before, now her brain turned to mashed potatoes. “Your bed?”
“Not with me.” He tripped over his words in haste and coughed into his fist. “I’ll settle out by the fire. You take my bed. It’s more comfortable.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Where else will you sleep?”
“The floor next to Dad.”
His expression turned stony. “You really think that I’ll let you curl up on
Come on, this is so not fair, fate. Really not fair.
“Light is on your left,” he called.
“Got it.” She walked through the door and ran her hand over the wall to find the switch, flicking it on. If she hoped to discover any clues about the mysterious man,this room wasn’t yielding answers. There was a full-sized four-poster bed covered with a plain green down comforter, a framed poster of Mount Whitney, a bedside table with a half-full glass of water. And then . . . oh. Okay. Now we are talking.
Two large pine bookshelves bracketed either side of the window, stuffed with books. Many she recognized. Many she had sent herself.
Never ina million years did she expect to ever see them again.
As she stood, staring at the titles, she became aware of something else. The room smelled good.
It smelled like him .
“See anything you like?” With the light on, his face was clear for the first time that night. None of those rough features could ever be described as handsome. But he had that quality, the elusive and indefinablespark that made you look a second time, everything an interesting paradox. Wide brutal lips, but at the same time, the idea of them fastened to her skin made her dizzy. His hair tumbled in every direction, thick, dark, and shaggy, grazing his shirt’s collar, and yet the texture invited touch, and those eyes held a magnetic longing, as if compelling her to give . . . what?
Good God, get ittogether, woman. He’d notice her legs shaking in another second, rattling the floorboard. “Anything I like? Um . . . yes . . . this.” She grabbed blindly, realizing it was Grimm’s Fairy Tales . Good enough.
“Interesting choice,” he rumbled. “Those stories were darker than I expected.”
It had been a long time since she had read any Grimm, but vague recollections hung over her. “They arepretty macabre, huh? Death. Doom. Old ladies snacking on young children, etcetera.” She rubbed the front cover to avoid his intense scrutiny. The book seemed oddly perfect, like of course she’d read a fairy tale on such a windblown wintry night, hunkered in a little lost cabin down a strange lane, haunted by a brooding man who—
Dad coughed from the kitchen as a flood of guilt doused her warmheart in a cold splash of realism. What was she doing? Romantic thoughts had no place in her real world.
Not when she had to take care of Dad, handle his affairs. Not to mention that her own brain might be a ticking time bomb.
Better to keep her dreams confined to imagination. Live vicariously through plucky bluestockings and dashing dukes or wolf shifters or alpha tycoons. Those men mightbe dangerous on the page, but they were safe for a bookworm like her.
“You okay?” His deep voice broke up her train of thought.
She snapped up her head. “Huh?”
“I asked if you were okay. You made a face.”
“What kind?”
“A thinking one.” A note of amusement clung to his words.
She squashed her brows together, readjusting her glasses. Was he making fun of her? “Newsflash,I do have a brain.”
“I wasn’t hinting you were a scarecrow.”
She stared, lost.
He scanned the shelf and plucked another title, holding it up while arching a brow. The Wizard of Oz .
“Oh. Right. If I only had a brain.” Duh. “I’m not really winning any Mensa awards tonight.”
“You’re tired and worried.” He shelved the book. “Go take care of your dad and then think about gettingsome shut-eye yourself. You look as if you could use it. My bed is free.”
If she was befuddled before, now her brain turned to mashed potatoes. “Your bed?”
“Not with me.” He tripped over his words in haste and coughed into his fist. “I’ll settle out by the fire. You take my bed. It’s more comfortable.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Where else will you sleep?”
“The floor next to Dad.”
His expression turned stony. “You really think that I’ll let you curl up on
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