“And Thomas…god, he’s such an insufferable bore, and so conceited, and entitled, and just assumes I’ll marry him because Father said so, and hasn’t ever even stopped to wonder what I think about him, despite my havingtoldhim I’d never marry him and that I can’t stand to even look at his stupid, handsome, arrogant face. He just doesn’t care. He wants me, and that’s all that matters. He feels he deserves me because he wants me, and thus he’ll get me one way or another.”
Everyone was staring at me, silent, and I realized I’d been ranting.
“And, um…that’s the story of Thomas.” I stood up, hands shaking, stomach churning. “I should go. It’s late, and it’s been a long day.”
I hustled out of the room and retrieved from the bathroom the plastic bag with my clothing in it and my purse from the kitchen counter, and headed for the door.
“It was very nice to meet you all. Thank you so much for your kindness and hospitality, Dru. I’ll bring your clothes by tomorrow.” I had the door open and was halfway down the stairs when I heard feet behind me.
“Yo, Eva, hold up.” Baxter, of course. He caught up to me as I reached the bottom of the stairs and the darkened bar, the stools and chairs all flipped up on the bar and the tables, the only light coming from an illuminated “EXIT” sign.
I turned. “Yes, Baxter?”
“Ain’t you learned your lesson about walking around in the dark, alone?”
I stiffened because he was only inches away, staring down at me in the darkness with his eyes shining bright and glittering and intense, and his body was warm and his chest was bare, and he was enormous and far too close.
“It’s not far. I’ll be fine.”
He snorted. “It wasn’t far from the fight to here, either, and look what happened.”
I sighed. “Fine. Baxter, my knight in shining armor, would you please escort me back to my bed and breakfast?”
He winked down at me. “Sure thing, sexy.” He offered me his arm. “Let’s go. Which one you staying at?”
“Um. It’s got a funny name. King’s something? King’s Abode?”
He laughed. “The Kingsley’s Rest, owned and operated by John and Beverly Kingsley. Nice place, nice folks. Good choice.”
“You know it?”
He shrugged, leading me out the door. “Eh, sure, of course. Never stayed there, obviously, since I grew up in this town. But I’ve…um…hung out with a few people who have stayed there, and they always rave about it, plus I know Tate and Aerie, John and Beverly’s twin granddaughters. They spend a few weeks up here every summer.”
I glanced at him as we strolled down the street. It was something like three in the morning at this point, and it was pretty chilly out, yet he was clad in nothing but his red fighting trunks and a pair of bright yellow cross trainers, his feet shoved in barefoot. He didn’t seem fazed by the cool air at all, yet I was fighting the urge to shiver.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Nah, not really. I was born and raised here in Alaska and lived in Calgary for two years, so I’m plenty used to the cold.” He glanced at me, his eyes going to my nipples, which had hardened into protruding spikes yet again. “Why, you gonna give me your shirt if I am? In which case, yeah, I’m freezing.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I snapped.
“True. No way it’d fit me.” He winked, grinning. “You could take it off and I could wrap it around my shoulders like a cape?”
I couldn’t help a laugh. “You really will say anything, won’t you?”
He nodded. “Pretty much. Never had a filter, and don’t see the point.”
“Well, in case it’s not clear at this point, no, I’m not taking off my shirt for you.”
He snapped his fingers. “Damn. You’ve been teasing me with these things”—and here he tapped the underside of my breast with two fingers, a gentle tap—“since the second you came out of that bathroom. I’m fuckin’ dyin’ for a peek.”
I cradled my breast with one hand and turned away from him, putting space between us, glaring daggers at him. “HEY! You can’t just…you can’t do that! Keep your hands to yourself, Baxter. I’m serious.”
I dropped my hand and tried not to feel self-conscious about how…out there…my breasts were, and also tried not to think about the fact that Baxter had just touched my breast and that I’d had to fake a certain amount of indignant anger, since I’d not minded as much as I should have.
“Oh, you’re serious?” he asked, the picture of studied innocence. “Good thing you told me you’re serious. Because if you weren’t serious, I’d probably do something else, just for fun.”
A step, another, and I was tense, expecting him to try something. Anticipating. Waiting.
