Page 103 of Protecting What's Mine
“Body jets, you say?” She raised an interested eyebrow.
“Pack a contingency bag. There’s no pressure to use it. But then you’ll have it if you succumb to the charms of my very comfortable mattress.”
“This better be one hell of a mattress or I’m going to be very disappointed.”
“Dreamy, I don’t oversell anything in the bedroom.”
“In that case, we’d better hydrate. Want a water?” she offered over her shoulder as she headed for the fridge.
He waited for it and wasn’t disappointed when he heard her gasp of outrage.
“You cut a hole in my fence!”
“My fence actually,” he said, joining her in the kitchen. “And it’s a gate. It makes sneaking into your bed or you sneaking into mine more convenient. Besides, now I can mow your yard without driving around the block.”
There were several emotions flickering in rotation on that lovely face. Most of them varying shades of annoyance.
“I’m concerned that there’s something wrong with you that goes far beyond my medical expertise,” she told him finally.
“Full disclosure. I fell on my face jumping that stupid fucking fence this morning. Landed in a shrub.” He stroked a hand over the scrape on his jaw. “Felt like I needed to solve the problem with a chainsaw.”
Mack laughed.
33
The man was not lying about his bed.
Nor his shower.
She’d helped herself to the latter last night after two athletic rounds of very satisfying sex. They’d forgotten to fight. But she’d beat him in number of orgasms and considered it a win.
As for the bed, it was a big, beautiful dream. The king mattress took up most of the space in the loft. Soft enough to gently hug any sore body parts but firm enough that she didn’t feel like she was being swallowed by a cloud.
The sheets were good quality and clean. And there were pillows. Many, many pillows. They were a decadence she’d forgotten about in her years of deployments or bunking in tiny air ambulance lounges. But she remembered now. Pressing her face into the one Linc’s head had vacated, she sighed.
Spending the night wasn’t her plan. But the man singing Beyoncé in the shower had proven to be far more convincing than she’d given him credit for.
Mack stretched as the rising sun lightened the room.
The room was spartan, which her orderly sensibilities appreciated. There was a non-descript dresser on the wall facing the bed and a pair of matching nightstands. Two baskets of clean, folded laundry were stacked in the corner.
She helped herself to a BFD hooded sweatshirt and tiptoed downstairs so as not to disturb the amusing rendition of “Irreplaceable.”
The concrete floors were chilly under her bare feet. She found a Keurig on the counter and was pleasantly surprised to find a box of green tea K-cups sitting next to it. There was also a mug that seemed suspiciously new.
World’s Okayest Trauma Doctor.
She snorted and powered up the coffee maker.
While she waited for it to warm up, she snooped. The kitchen was barely bigger than her own. One wall of cabinets and countertop. Simple gray cabinets. White counter. She opened the cabinet next to the stove.
Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one to snoop. An unopened container of her preferred protein powder sat on the shelf next to Linc’s bulk tub of manly firefighter muscle producing stuff. She found acceptable smoothie ingredients in the fridge and freezer and went to work on making a double.
By the time Linc came downstairs, dressed in his BFD polo and cargo pants and now whistling what sounded like a Hall and Oates ballad, she had two protein smoothies ready to go.
He was unfairly gorgeous. Sexy. Cute. Looking at Chief Reed was rapidly becoming a favored pastime.
“I like this,” he said, spinning his cap around backward so he could kiss her unimpeded.
