Page 40 of Unpacking Secrets
“Well,” Juliet mused, “you did want to make the dog ride in the back.”
I laughed and said, “And when you see just how long the smell lingers, you might realize that was the wiser option.”
The odor was much fainter now that we were outside of the truck, but as her cheeks blazed, I suspected Juliet was already fantasizing about a nice long soak in the bathtub—or maybe about my offer to help scrub the smell off her skin. When she finally forced herself to look over at me, I winked and gave a slight bow.
As far as I could tell, every thought in her head played clearly across her face, and damned if I didn’t find that absolutely delightful, now that I was inspiring dirty thoughts instead of murderous ones.
“Once your knee is back up to snuff, I’ll take you to my other favorite spot. You’ll want to bring your camera and a sketchbook for that one, I think.”
“I’m a quick healer,” she said, flashing a grin.
“Uh-huh. We’ll see, won’t we? Go on, get some rest.”
Without a word, Juliet smiled at me, those blue eyes filled with something warm and sweet, and slipped through the door to the cottage. I waited until she was safely inside before turning back to the truck.
Blue’s ears drooped as though she missed Juliet already. I heaved a sigh as I got behind the wheel.
“Cheer up, girl,” I told the dog as I shifted gears. “We’ll see her again soon.”
The reassurance did little for either of us, I noted with a tinge of frustration. What was it about her? Juliet radiated passion, as though that fiery spirit overflowed her enticingly curvaceous body and graced everyone nearby with the distinct sensation of basking in sunlight.
My original interpretation, crediting temper for that flame, had been dead wrong. It was something more innate, something that permeated her very essence. That spark colored all of her reactions, both good and bad, with those tiny licks of fire.
Though I was still ashamed of myself for picking a fight with her that first day at the inn, the memory of her threatening to break my hand outside The Mermaid made me grin as I drove home.
“She’s something, all right,” I said aloud.
Blue’s tail thumped against the seat in agreement.
I pulled into my driveway and, before I even opened the front door, my phone started chiming madly with an influx of text messages from Libby. She and her husband, Mark, lived across the street and three houses down—I shouldn’t have been surprised they were keeping an eye out for me to return.
Where did you take her?
How's she feeling?
Did you two make out yet?
I rolled my eyes and opened the front door. Blue sat herself down beside the couch, looking dejected.
“Don’t give me that,” I grumbled. “You just had the time of your life at the beach. You’ll survive an afternoon without her. Besides, the first order of business is a bath for you, my smelly mongrel. Juliet might not mind the stench, but I do.”
Blue, unfortunately, hated baths almost as much as she loved the lake. I sprayed her off in the downstairs shower stall, soaped her with some kind of dog shampoo that smelled inexplicably like blueberries, and toweled off as much water as I could before leaving her to dry in the sunshine on the back deck.
I decided to let Libby stew about my outing with Juliet and hopped in the shower without responding to her messages, though I set my phone by the sink in case Juliet needed to reach me.
As I scrubbed the tang of wet dog from my skin, I tried very hard not to imagine Juliet doing the same. In that, I failed most spectacularly. For a woman with such strength, she was perfectly soft, decadently sweet.
What I wouldn’t give to run my soapy hands over each delectable inch of her.
Libby had teased me ever since junior high that I was ruled by two extremes—acting immediately on instinct or dissecting an idea into microscopic pieces before making a decision. If my track record with women was anything to go by, that was one area where I was prone to impulse.
And now? Every impulse in my body was hooked on Juliet Morrison.
Barely twenty-four hours ago, I couldn’t stand the thought of her. No matter how many timesI reminded myself of that, the memory of finding her in the woods yesterday streaked with blood and limping along kept flashing behind my eyes. Every time, it caused my heart to constrict with an echo of dread.
I grinned, though, when I recalled the fire in her eyes and the branch held before her like a weapon until she recognized me. She was a fighter, all right.
And the bra clasp—I actually groaned aloud at the thought of it. I saw every detail again clear as day when I closed my eyes: the flush in her freckled cheeks, the fine bones along her collar, the silken skin of her back beneath those pale pink straps, the way she shivered when my fingers brushed her spine.
