Page 100 of Tumbleweed Temptation
“Let’s go back to my place.”
“Yes,” she said, the sweetest word he’d ever heard.
As he slipped back into the driver’s seat, he hoped she didn’t change her mind.
She didn’t, though the ride back to town was tense and quiet, but he didn’t have to come around to help her out of the Jeep. As soon as he parked in front of his building, her door was open, and she waited at the door for him to unlock it so they could run upstairs and fall into each other’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Austin shouldn’t bethis happy after attending the funeral he’d dreaded, but when he looked across the bed and saw Ginny sleeping on her stomach, hugging his pillow, her hair spread out, well, there was no other word for it.
Well. Maybe one other word.
He resisted the urge to wake her with a kiss, since he’d already done that last night. Instead he carefully slid from beneath the comforter and padded to the bathroom. He’d never thought he was a loud person, but he found himself striving to be extra quiet so he wouldn’t wake her.
So naturally he dropped his toothbrush into the sink with a clatter, clanged the soap dish against the porcelain of the sink. And when he opened the door to step out of the bathroom, the hinges squeaked. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
Ginny peered at him from the bed, her forehead furrowed.
“Sorry,” he whispered, which was kind of too little, too late.
She sat up, and he noted that at some point, she’d put on one of his t-shirts. He tried not to be too disappointed, because she looked good in his shirt, too, and the intimacy of the gesture turned him on.
She made a motion with her hand to urge him out of the way of the bathroom. He stepped aside, and when she dashed for the door, he bent his head to kiss her, but she blocked her mouth with her hand.
“Morning breath,” she mumbled, then closed the door between them.
He moved into the kitchen to make coffee, wondering how long he could convince her to stay. Wondering if she’d want to dash out in the dress she’d worn to the funeral. He didn’t think so.
“Hey, want some French toast for breakfast?” he asked as she walked out of the bathroom. After her confession to him last night, all he wanted was to make her happy.
She crossed the the island and leaned on it, blocking his view of her long legs in her practical cotton panties. “You do not know how to make French toast.”
“I do.” He reached down to pull a skillet from the cabinet. “I used to make it for my mom, so she could sleep in on Saturdays. I’ll prove it.”
“You have powdered sugar?” She hoisted herself into one of the chairs to watch.
