rest on the covers between them. Neither of them spoke again, but Nash watched until her eyes drifted shut and her breathing deepened before allowing sleep to steal him away.
* * *
A man with rumpled hair and brown eyes trailed his mouth down her naked body, planting himself between her legs. She arched her back and tried to move her legs farther apart to give him better access.
Her leg was trapped. Bright sunshine danced stars behind her eyelids. Had she fallen asleep outside? Where was her mystery lover? She tensed and her eyes shot open, blinking to clear the fog of her dreams.
A stack of comic books on a messy nightstand was in her field of vision. Dust motes played in the sunbeams shining through the skylights. Memory flooded back. She was in Nash’s bedroom. Her head was pillowed on one of his arms while his other was draped over her waist. His hairy, heavy leg had caged her in. Dear Lord, they were spooning. Even more alarming, Nash had been her sexy dream man.
Her breathing hitched. She couldn’t deny that Nash had turned into a handsome man, and neither could she deny that when he’d walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, all her female parts tingled.
But Nash was the total opposite of the type of man she usually went for. For one thing, he was smart—really smart. For another, he seemed nice—adorably nice. Chivalrous even. Maybe that was something he’d picked up studying medieval knights or maybe it was his Southern DNA flaring to life in the humidity.
The way he’d swooped in last night to get her away from Heath had made her want to throw herself into his arms. And the way he’d insisted they come back to his place so she’d be safe made her heart flutter.
But, it was Nash . Her best friend. Until he wasn’t anymore.
What time was it? Birds trilled and called to one another. Probably still early then. She should get up and leave, but she had nowhere to be until noon. Reed Garrison, her second-in-command, was opening the gym that morning. Nash’s chest moved against her back with deep, slow breaths. As soon as she moved, he would awaken and the moment would be lost. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
His hand was splayed on the bed in front of her. As kids, they’d held hands while wading the river. She’d watched him catch frogs and tie slipknots for rabbit snares. His hands had been small but his fingers dexterous.
Now his hands were huge, his palms broad and his fingers long. They looked completely unfamiliar. Gently, so he wouldn’t wake, she tilted his hand up a few inches. A white scar traced from the meaty part of his thumb around to the base of his index finger.
A rusty fishing hook had sliced him while he was casting around in the muddy reeds for crayfish. Blood had poured out, and she had hollered so loud both her parents had come running. Her mother took over, pressing a dishtowel over the wound while her father had called Nash’s house. By that time, his mother was already sick. His aunt Leora sat with her most days while his dad worked on the oilrig.
Her daddy drove him to the doctor in his old truck, and she had sat in the middle of the bench seat holding Nash’s uninjured hand, telling him he’d better not die. Ten stiches and a tetanus shot later, Nash was strutting around, proud of his battle scar, but he’d squeezed her hand hard while they waited for the doctor.
“Morning. Glad no rampaging ex-boyfriends found us last night.” His sleepy, rumbly voice startled her, and she shifted around to see his face, but didn’t drop his hand.
His brown eyes were half-lidded, his hair even more rumpled than the night before. And … yep, that was definitely a hard-on brushing against her hip. Her body didn’t recognize Nash as off-limits and responded in kind. Her nipples pebbled, and she was afraid if she glanced down to see how obvious they were, it would only draw his attention to her inappropriate reaction. At least, he
* * *
A man with rumpled hair and brown eyes trailed his mouth down her naked body, planting himself between her legs. She arched her back and tried to move her legs farther apart to give him better access.
Her leg was trapped. Bright sunshine danced stars behind her eyelids. Had she fallen asleep outside? Where was her mystery lover? She tensed and her eyes shot open, blinking to clear the fog of her dreams.
A stack of comic books on a messy nightstand was in her field of vision. Dust motes played in the sunbeams shining through the skylights. Memory flooded back. She was in Nash’s bedroom. Her head was pillowed on one of his arms while his other was draped over her waist. His hairy, heavy leg had caged her in. Dear Lord, they were spooning. Even more alarming, Nash had been her sexy dream man.
Her breathing hitched. She couldn’t deny that Nash had turned into a handsome man, and neither could she deny that when he’d walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, all her female parts tingled.
But Nash was the total opposite of the type of man she usually went for. For one thing, he was smart—really smart. For another, he seemed nice—adorably nice. Chivalrous even. Maybe that was something he’d picked up studying medieval knights or maybe it was his Southern DNA flaring to life in the humidity.
The way he’d swooped in last night to get her away from Heath had made her want to throw herself into his arms. And the way he’d insisted they come back to his place so she’d be safe made her heart flutter.
But, it was Nash . Her best friend. Until he wasn’t anymore.
What time was it? Birds trilled and called to one another. Probably still early then. She should get up and leave, but she had nowhere to be until noon. Reed Garrison, her second-in-command, was opening the gym that morning. Nash’s chest moved against her back with deep, slow breaths. As soon as she moved, he would awaken and the moment would be lost. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
His hand was splayed on the bed in front of her. As kids, they’d held hands while wading the river. She’d watched him catch frogs and tie slipknots for rabbit snares. His hands had been small but his fingers dexterous.
Now his hands were huge, his palms broad and his fingers long. They looked completely unfamiliar. Gently, so he wouldn’t wake, she tilted his hand up a few inches. A white scar traced from the meaty part of his thumb around to the base of his index finger.
A rusty fishing hook had sliced him while he was casting around in the muddy reeds for crayfish. Blood had poured out, and she had hollered so loud both her parents had come running. Her mother took over, pressing a dishtowel over the wound while her father had called Nash’s house. By that time, his mother was already sick. His aunt Leora sat with her most days while his dad worked on the oilrig.
Her daddy drove him to the doctor in his old truck, and she had sat in the middle of the bench seat holding Nash’s uninjured hand, telling him he’d better not die. Ten stiches and a tetanus shot later, Nash was strutting around, proud of his battle scar, but he’d squeezed her hand hard while they waited for the doctor.
“Morning. Glad no rampaging ex-boyfriends found us last night.” His sleepy, rumbly voice startled her, and she shifted around to see his face, but didn’t drop his hand.
His brown eyes were half-lidded, his hair even more rumpled than the night before. And … yep, that was definitely a hard-on brushing against her hip. Her body didn’t recognize Nash as off-limits and responded in kind. Her nipples pebbled, and she was afraid if she glanced down to see how obvious they were, it would only draw his attention to her inappropriate reaction. At least, he
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