Page 3 of Daddy's Heart

His smile is pure sin andlethal.

His arms cross, and the movement pulls his flannel tight across shoulders that look like they were built to carry a girl like me straight into the woods and do the most debauched and wonderful things to her. His eyes stay fixed on my face, unblinking, like he’s logging points on a map for later.

He lowers a hand and scoops up my bag, spinning on the toe of his worn hiking boot and heading back toward the porch.

“Come. Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you.” He tosses me a look and little fingers of naughtiness drum downlow, reminding me of how long it’s been since I had any sort of Sheriff Boone sort of action.

I stand there for a second, my knee getting warm and achy, like my suddenly awakened-from-years-of-slumber vagina. My eyes solidly pinned on how his butt looks in those worn Levi’s, thinking I’ve just scratched the winning ticket because I’m gonna ask him to drop his drawers in the very near future.

“Come on, babygirl. We gotta look at that knee. And apparently,” He smirks like he’s reading my mind, “you’re gonna get an up close and personal look at my ass.”

He extends a hand as I get to the stairs and I bite back the wince as I bend my leg to take them one at a time. His jaw is set hard, a slight shake of his head, but his hand engulfs mine, warm and demanding, leading me across the worn wood planks of the porch and through the door.

Inside the cabin, it’s warmer than outside. Dark wood everywhere. Beautiful stained glass lamps that look shockingly like authentic Tiffany lamps. It adds a layer of surprising refinement to the rustic, minimally decorated masculine space.

The strong scent of coffee and maybe woodsmoke from a well-used iron stove in the kitchen tops off the classic mountain cabin vibe.

It’s lived-in but orderly. The kind of place that shouldn’t feel comforting but somehow does. There are a few photos on the walls. A foursome of men in several that look similar to Sheriff Boone here, but each with their distinctive features, along with a small but determined looking older woman who I can only assume is the mother to this mountain man-meat clan.

“Take a seat, let’s take care of that knee,” he releases my hand then drops my bag with a thud on a sturdy, square kitchen table with four matching chairs that looks gorgeously hand carved. Then he marches off to the cupboards, tugging one open andpulling out a first aid kit. When he turns back around, his brows draw tight. “I said, take a seat.”

“I’m fine. I’m here to take care ofyourwound, remember?”

“AndIdon’t need a nurse. Didn’t ask for one.”

“Medical assistant,” I mutter, unzipping my bag and digging inside. “And your doctor sent me. He said you’ve been ignoring follow-up care for two weeks.”

His jaw flexes. “Okay, here’s the deal. I take care of your knee, I’ll let you take care of my ass.”

I huff, but only because his protectiveness is starting to get under my skin. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes, pointing at the seat next to me, and reluctantly, but gladly, I sit, because my knee is honestly stinging like it took a shot from a bionic bumble bee. “Scrubs. Off.”

“Excuse me?” Heat explodes across my cheeks and down my chest.

“How am I going to get at that knee with those pants in the way?”

It takes me a moment. Then it dawns on me. “No.” I’m on my feet again. “Absolutely not. I’ll deal with the cut when I get home and—”

“Sit. The fuck. Down.” His voice sucks the rest of the argument from my throat . My butt hits the chair again, my thumbs hook into the elastic waistband of my scrubs while I say a silent prayer that I don’t spontaneously combust and burn this nice little cabin to the ground with us inside. “Good girl,” he rumbles as he lowers himself into a man crouch in front of me, eyes fixed between my legs as I wiggle my pants down just below my knees and press my thighs together, trying to hide the wet spot on the front of my practical beige panties.

And I swear his nostrils flare on a solid inhale, like he’s just caught the scent of breakfast in the morning.

He takes his time, cleaning the wound with a care I’d never have expected from a man like Colt. He grumbles a few times, muttering something about fucking gravel, and making plans to replace the whole path with the paving stones.

Then he’s done, his jaw is set hard, nodding toward my pants gathered at the tops of my calves.

“You can pull those up.” He slow glances upward, catching mine for an impossibly long pause before finishing with, “If you want.”

What I want is to climb this man like he’s got a tree fort filled with snacks at the top, but instead, I tug my lips into a tight smile and pull my dignity back up around my waist. He pushes back up, standing straight, stepping back to the kitchen as I exhale toward the ceiling. He puts the first aid kit back, then immediately before I can fully recover, shrugs out of his flannel and tosses it aside.

Jesus, that chest. It’s a freakin’ religion.

A cult.

I’d drink that Kool-aid any day of the week and three times on Sunday. I don’t have the strength nor the will to tell him he didn’t have to take off his shirt.

His biceps are a study in perfect male anatomy. Bulging, but in that ‘I’ve been chopping wood and carrying Oak trees since I was five’ sort of way. And don’t even get me started on his chest.

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