in the foyer, dropping the fine cloth to the ground, where it hit with a strange thud, like a melon wrapped in a wet pillowcase.
“What do you mean not here? Did the Jeep break down?”
“No.”
She felt Dylan’s presence behind her and turned around to see an inscrutable look on his face. His eyes met Mike’s, and something passed between them, some unspoken message that she knew she’d never know. They had this… ability to do that. It used to make her feel left out.
Right now, though, she was just glad that someone understood what on earth was going on with Mike, because it looked like he’d just—
“You ran home,” Dylan said in an admiring tone.
“Yes.”
“From where?” Laura asked. “And in dress shoes and a suit?” Why would he run home? Had there been a catastrophe? A flash of September 11, 2001 shot through her consciousness, making her eyes dart to the blank television screen, the set turned off. Had some world disaster struck?
“From work.” Mike’s two-word sentences were freaking her out.
“From the resort office?”
“Yes.” Now he was down to one-word utterances and she was being driven absolutely mad.
“But that’s miles!” Her own shrillness made her stop talking, swallow hard, and turn to look at Dylan, who was staring at Mike. She knew Frank had been in his office. How bad had it been?
“I run it all the time.” Mike struggled to unbutton a cuff, and after the third failed attempt simply ripped at the fabric, a button pinging off a light fixture, landing an inch from her foot. Peeling his arm out of the wet cloth, he dropped the shirt on the floor. A part of Laura’s mind did an inventory of buttons; Jillian would find one and swallow it if allowed. She bent down to get it, and her eyes found his shirt and mentally cataloged. All buttons accounted for.
Mike’s sense of balance was remarkably absent. If only it were as easy to track as buttons…
“You run home, yes,” she conceded. “But in proper running shoes and clothes! Not in tight wingtips and a business suit!”
Bright eyes met hers, feral and predatory. Dangerous. She shut up instantly.
Dylan’s warm hand covered her shoulder and she took a few breaths, trying to understand what had happened. “It’s cool. Go shower, Mike. I’ll explain it all to Laura.”
Mike was stripped down to his boxer briefs, which were as soaked with sweat as if he’d gone swimming in them. His body gleamed, muscles swollen with use, his legs strong and contoured. An urge to touch them, to run her hands along the hills and valleys they made on his thighs and calves, swept through her, her eyes drinking in the slopes of his glutes, how he looked like a tanned black diamond ski trail, all twists and turns and something she wanted to summit.
And go down.
Sex was the last thing on Mike’s mind, Laura knew, as he shook his head curtly and marched past her. The hiss of a shower turning on echoed in the distance.
Laura turned to Dylan and asked, “What the hell is that all about?”
He reached for her hand, then nudged her toward the couch. Uh-oh. Something was wrong .
“Is this about Frank?” she asked in a voice so shaky she cringed, hating the neediness in her own tone. Not that she could help it. Her mind raced to locate Jillian in time and space. That’s right. She sighed and turned around to find Little Miss Sweetie spread out on an activity blanket on the floor in front of the sofa, a set of stacking cups on front of her, spilled pell-mell all over the place.
Jillian was chewing on the edge of one of Dylan’s tennis shoes.
“Yes,” Dylan said, pulling her in for an embrace she didn’t know she needed until his warmth covered her.
“Mama hug! Mama hug!” Jillian called out, clapping fat little hands. Abandoning her snack, she leaned forward, stuck her bum in the air, and pushed herself up to standing, toddling over to Dylan and Laura, inserting herself between. Tiny ringlet curls banged against Laura’s
“What do you mean not here? Did the Jeep break down?”
“No.”
She felt Dylan’s presence behind her and turned around to see an inscrutable look on his face. His eyes met Mike’s, and something passed between them, some unspoken message that she knew she’d never know. They had this… ability to do that. It used to make her feel left out.
Right now, though, she was just glad that someone understood what on earth was going on with Mike, because it looked like he’d just—
“You ran home,” Dylan said in an admiring tone.
“Yes.”
“From where?” Laura asked. “And in dress shoes and a suit?” Why would he run home? Had there been a catastrophe? A flash of September 11, 2001 shot through her consciousness, making her eyes dart to the blank television screen, the set turned off. Had some world disaster struck?
“From work.” Mike’s two-word sentences were freaking her out.
“From the resort office?”
“Yes.” Now he was down to one-word utterances and she was being driven absolutely mad.
“But that’s miles!” Her own shrillness made her stop talking, swallow hard, and turn to look at Dylan, who was staring at Mike. She knew Frank had been in his office. How bad had it been?
“I run it all the time.” Mike struggled to unbutton a cuff, and after the third failed attempt simply ripped at the fabric, a button pinging off a light fixture, landing an inch from her foot. Peeling his arm out of the wet cloth, he dropped the shirt on the floor. A part of Laura’s mind did an inventory of buttons; Jillian would find one and swallow it if allowed. She bent down to get it, and her eyes found his shirt and mentally cataloged. All buttons accounted for.
Mike’s sense of balance was remarkably absent. If only it were as easy to track as buttons…
“You run home, yes,” she conceded. “But in proper running shoes and clothes! Not in tight wingtips and a business suit!”
Bright eyes met hers, feral and predatory. Dangerous. She shut up instantly.
Dylan’s warm hand covered her shoulder and she took a few breaths, trying to understand what had happened. “It’s cool. Go shower, Mike. I’ll explain it all to Laura.”
Mike was stripped down to his boxer briefs, which were as soaked with sweat as if he’d gone swimming in them. His body gleamed, muscles swollen with use, his legs strong and contoured. An urge to touch them, to run her hands along the hills and valleys they made on his thighs and calves, swept through her, her eyes drinking in the slopes of his glutes, how he looked like a tanned black diamond ski trail, all twists and turns and something she wanted to summit.
And go down.
Sex was the last thing on Mike’s mind, Laura knew, as he shook his head curtly and marched past her. The hiss of a shower turning on echoed in the distance.
Laura turned to Dylan and asked, “What the hell is that all about?”
He reached for her hand, then nudged her toward the couch. Uh-oh. Something was wrong .
“Is this about Frank?” she asked in a voice so shaky she cringed, hating the neediness in her own tone. Not that she could help it. Her mind raced to locate Jillian in time and space. That’s right. She sighed and turned around to find Little Miss Sweetie spread out on an activity blanket on the floor in front of the sofa, a set of stacking cups on front of her, spilled pell-mell all over the place.
Jillian was chewing on the edge of one of Dylan’s tennis shoes.
“Yes,” Dylan said, pulling her in for an embrace she didn’t know she needed until his warmth covered her.
“Mama hug! Mama hug!” Jillian called out, clapping fat little hands. Abandoning her snack, she leaned forward, stuck her bum in the air, and pushed herself up to standing, toddling over to Dylan and Laura, inserting herself between. Tiny ringlet curls banged against Laura’s
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