Page 49 of The Bombshell and the Bodyguard
He stopped right there, leaving off the end of that tantalizing sentence and shuttering his expression.
“What?”
He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Nothing.”
“What were you about to say. What isn’t easy?” I demanded.
His grim expression didn’t soften. “Nothing. I’ve had too much rum.”
Then he rolled onto his side, facing away from me. “I’m tired. I need to sleep now. You do, too. It’s been a long day.”
For a moment I lingered, studying the outline of his magnificent body in the firelight. Then I draped the throw blanket over him.
“Good night, Wilder.”
He must have been asleep already because he didn’t answer.
Chapter Seventeen
That’s What It Feels Like
Jessica
I don’t know how he managed to sleep on the floor, but when I went into the living room the next morning, Wilder was still sacked out.
I made coffee and bacon and eggs, glancing over at him again and again. He’d thrown off the blanket during the night and removed his shirt, too.
In spite of his size and impressive muscles and the scruff of morning growth on his jaw, he looked sort of angelic.
Not in that feminine, fluffy way people tended to picture angels. No, he was definitely more of a warrior angel, fierce and terrifying but also achingly beautiful.
It was nice to be able to study him like this, when he wasn’t aware of it. As I enjoyed the view, I kept wondering… what had he meant last night when he’d started to say, “It isn’t easy…?”
The pathetic part of me that still longed for him wanted to believe that sentence ended with, “…being so close to you and not being able to touch you the way I’d like to.”
The more sensible part of me knew it was probably more along the lines of, “…being stuck out here for so long away from my friends and family.”
Wilder was certainly not giving up any answers.
I spent the day indoors with him, making sure he was comfortable and fed, fixing his meals, keeping up with his pain reliever doses, and helping him to and from the bathroom.
In spite of the forced intimacy, it was like last night had never happened. He was back to his old detached and businesslike self.
But then several times throughout the day I caught him looking at me, and the expression on his face was... well, I didn’t know what to call it, but it wasn’tuninterested.
Each time though, he’d looked away, the impassive mask snapping back into place.
He insisted on sleeping on the living room rug again that night. The next day, he was up and moving around the house in a sort of limp-hop that was slow and awkward but got him where he was going.
Which was mostly to his office where he stayed holed up working all day and for the next few days as well. Sometimes he went out to the dock to “fish.”
I wasn’t sure if his sudden “busyness” was a result of his conversation with Hap or my confession about having a crush on him years ago or both, but the result was the same—he was avoiding me.
Fine. I wasn’t going to beg him to spend time with me. And I wasn’t going to pout. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to do those things I usually didn’t have time for.
I dug up some milkweed plants and transplanted them closer to the house so I could enjoy watching butterflies from the deck. I read the war and strategy books, which actually weren’t that bad.
And I indulged my love of cooking. The house was well-stocked with food, I had access to a spectacular kitchen and several cooking channels, and I experimented to my heart’s delight.
