Lord have mercy.
A woman could get used to hands like his.
Which made her wonder. Did he have a partner? Kids? A dog? She’d heard other voices now and then. All of them male. The murmur of their conversations too low for her to make out through the log walls of the cabin.
But most of the time, she was positive they were alone.
Like now.
No noise came from a TV, no music from a radio, just a certain kind of quiet she’d come to associate with him. Not silence. Always on the move, sound followed him room to room. The clunk of logs added to the crackling fire. The rush of water from a tap turned on. The squeak of a floorboard as he walked by her door.
No. The quiet around him was something else.
Something more. A mystery she wanted to unravel.
But first, she had to find a bathroom before her bladder exploded.
Which meant getting vertical.
Not something she looked forward to.
As a physical therapist, she knew movement was critical for a speedy recovery. A fact she liked to preach to her clients to get them up as quickly as possible after their assorted surgeries. But damn if she didn’t want to stay in this bed for a few more days.
Not an option according to her body’s needs, and with a groan, she wrestled the covers off with her left arm. Her movements uncoordinated, her muscles uncooperative, her progress was slow and painful.
When she finally managed to stand, the cold air assaulted her bare legs. The baggy athletic shorts and black T-shirt she now sported doing little to fend off the chill.
In a hurry, she took a few steps toward the door before a bout of vertigo made her vision swim and the walls sway. Squeezing her eyes shut, she inhaled deep and fought for balance as her heartbeat drummed in her ears.
The effort to stay on her feet significant, she put the goal of moving one foot in front of the other on hold until the world stopped spinning around her. Her bladder protested, and she had to lock down a Kegel to keep from peeing on the floor.
Naturally, that’s how he found her.
Stranded and desperate for a toilet.
“Need a lift?”
Sweet mother of all that was holy. His voice washed over her. The one from her head.
The one who gave her orders, but she liked it, because he called her princess.
She opened her eyes and nodded because her tongue malfunctioned at the sight of him.
He stood on the threshold of the door. Tall. Intense gray eyes. Broad chest covered by a blue Henley. Brown leather straps cutting into his shoulders, holstering not one, but two guns. Both tucked into his sides as if they existed as an extension of his body.
At odds with the rest of his appearance, he held a red-checkered kitchen towel and used it to wipe his hands before jamming it in the pocket of his pants. Although his approach appeared casual, she had the distinct impression he remained aware of everything around him.
“Where to?” he asked, lifting her easily, one arm around her back, the other behind her knees.
“Washroom,” she answered, making a concerted effort not to burrow into his muscular chest. In her defense, he gave off heat and his familiar scent filled her nose in a way she found both comforting and unnerving.
He nodded and carried her from one room to the next. Careful not to jostle her, he set her down in front of her target, keeping his hands on her waist until he decided her legs would support her weight.
“My name is Adam Grayson,” he said, brushing her hair away from her face while his gaze roamed over her bruised cheek. “You don’t need to be scared of me. I won’t hurt you.”
Eve snorted and hitched her chin at the guns he wore. “Something tells me after nailing you in the nuts, I wouldn’t be standing here if you wanted me dead, so I’m not too worried about you.” She waved her hand in the general direction of his testicles. “Sorry about your package, by the way.”
He lifted a brow, but his cocky smile set off a couple of sparks inside her. “Don’t ever apologize for defending yourself. You don’t know me, and given your circumstances, you did what you had to. Got it?”
