Poppy

I hightail it out of Gator’s bathroom. My wet hair is one big clean tangle. I’m not sure I could get a brush through it even if Gator owned one—the only item in his bathroom besides toilet paper is that lonely bar of Irish Spring. It and I should bond, seeing as how we’re both single and lacking. I finger-comb the mess as best I can and plait it into a loose braid.

My next step is to shut down the skin show I’ve got going on. Since my own clothes are both wet and muddy, I’m hoping for miracles from the stack of dry things Gator pressed on me. My hair and my skin are squeaky clean, so there’s no way I’m slipping back into my old things if he’s given me an option. And he has, although I’m not sure how I feel about them.

Okay.

I know exactly how I feel.

I’m holding a pair of men’s boxer briefs in a nice dark navy blue. I’ve also got his Hanes and a brown and green flannel shirt that is blessedly huge. Showering was a terrible idea. I should have kept my mud armor and insisted on going straight back to Baton Rouge. You know. As much as the girl without a boat can insist that the guy she hit drop everything he’s doing to give her a lift. Despite Gator’s grumpiness, he seems genuinely willing to help—so I think he would have done it, and now I’ve missed my chance. Instead, I’m about to wear his boxers to prance around in public. I’m sure there’s a moral to this story that I’ll appreciate much later (like when I’m back in my own place and wearing my own underpants).

A faint sound from outside the bathroom door has me jerking my borrowed clothes on fast. Not that I think Gator would come busting in here, but standing around naked feels wrong. And more than a little dangerous. I hastily button the shirt up to my throat, take a quick peek in the mirror (my ass is covered but I’m not winning any fashion prizes), and carefully crack the door.

The coast is clear.

There’s nowhere obvious to stick my dirty towel, so I settle for folding it up and setting it on the bathroom counter. Then I suck in a nice, calming breath and exit the bathroom. See? I’m one step closer to Baton Rouge and home already. The bathroom adjoins a large bedroom. This must be where Gator sleeps because there’s a mattress on the floor, barely visible beneath a pile of sheets and a mountain of pillows. Other than those basics, the room appears to be entirely empty. Gator takes minimalism to new levels.

Another dozen steps bring me to the bedroom door. I’m getting closer to my end goal all the time. The door’s open, too, which makes leaving even easier. I mean, given the size of this place, I probably should have dropped a trail of breadcrumbs so I could Hansel and Gretel my way back to the dock. When I reach the top of the grand staircase that swoops and curls its way down to the main floor, Gator’s waiting for me.

He has his back against the wall, thick arms crossed over his chest. Somehow he fits this place. He’s like an enormous stone gargoyle or some kind of ever-vigilant guard. Or maybe it’s the fact that he looks like Mr. Big, Dark, and Scary thanks to the combination of ink, snarl, and scar. Would it kill him to smile a little?

I hold onto that thought while I start down the staircase. I’m a little worried that I’m flashing him my boxer-covered beaver because my borrowed shirt is tent-like and seems to take on a life of its own, floating and bouncing around me as I descend. It’s like I’m playing Scarlett O’Hara in some kind of weird, alternate universe and the crinoline has been replaced with lumberjack check. Eh. I can work with that. I pluck the corners of the shirt between my fingers and sweep downward for all I’m worth.

“Tomorrow is another day,” I declaim in my best faux Southern accent.

The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Should I give a damn?”

He knows my movie. I don’t know why I’m so shocked—or pleased. I think about it for a moment, and that’s definitely a thread of warm happy in my belly. Or possibly it’s something else, just a little further south, but I’m so not going there. It’s not like I thought Gator was a total beast (or not for long, at any rate), but I didn’t expect him to tease. Or to have awesome taste in movies.

If I were more coordinated, I’d twirl or slide down the bannister—but not falling off the steps and landing on my borrowed-briefs-covered ass is paramount. That almost-smile of his is something else. I stare at his mouth and almost miss a step. Maybe he’s not eternally grump. Maybe…

Back it up.

He still makes me nervous. He also sort of makes my non-existent panties wet. My borrowed clothes are all way too huge on me, and it’s more than a little weird thinking about where my outfit was last. Like… hanging on the very delicious clothes rack called Gator. I’m wearing the man’s briefs, for crying out loud. He hands me a wadded up stack of denim when I reach the bottommost step. Figures he wouldn’t be bringing me flowers. I shake out the mess and discover I’ve been gifted with a pair of men’s jeans. The bottoms have been hacked off and it’s just possible I’ll be able to keep them up with a belt. Or a rope. Possibly a tremendous dose of prayer. It beats going bare ass.

I wiggle into my new pants, trying to pretend it’s not awkward as hell, doing a reverse strip tease in front of Gator. He silently hands me a belt as soon as I’ve got my borrowed britches in place. I read a book once where the hero did all kinds of really dirty things to the heroine with a belt buckle and some downright erotic ingenuity. I had no idea you could fit a big metal object inside a hoo-ha or that I’d vicariously enjoy the idea so much. The heroine sure as hell did, and this thing in my hand is just about…

No dirty thoughts.

“Can we head back to Baton Rouge?”

He shoves off the wall. “Right now?”

“Yes, please.” I check his face, watching his eyes for signs of irritation. He could have other plans, plans that don’t involve chauffeuring my ass across the bayou. It’s not his fault that I’m boatless—he’s definitely the one doing me a favor here so I need to be flexible. But the day’s getting on. I have commitments. A cat to feed. A pressing need to be somewhere familiar.

“Okay,” he says. Mr. Agreeable must be the Jekyll to Mr. Grumpy’s Hyde because he bends down, snags my pack off the floor, and heads out the door. Just like that.