Lia contemplated the mostly dark cabin for a long time before she finally stepped out of her car. She self-consciously patted her hair and smoothed down her skirt before throwing back her shoulders and walking up the path to the front door.
She knocked and waited a moment, but there was no response. Another knock yielded the same result. Concerned that he was hurt and incapable of answering, she tried the handle and was surprised when the door swung soundlessly inward. The only source of light was coming from the loft, and Lia tilted her head and stared at it for a moment, wondering if she should venture up there.
“Mis—Brand?” she called softly. Nothing. She raised her voice. “Brand?”
“Up here.” She breathed a sigh of relief when his voice drifted down to her.
“I’m coming up,” she warned, and she heard him swear in response to her words.
“I hope so, otherwise there’d be no fucking point in having you here, would there?”
So rude.
She made her way upstairs, not sure what to expect. When she got to the loft, all she found was an unmade bed with clothing scattered all over the floor. Jeez, what a slob. She curbed the uncharitable thought, reminding herself that he was injured and this was probably not a true reflection of what his living space usually looked like.
“Brand?”
“Here.”
Crumbs! His voice was coming from the bathroom. Not good.
“Uh. What do you need?” she asked, and he swore again.
“You. Give me a hand, will you?” She heard water sloshing and grimaced.
“I don’t think I should.”
“Dahlia, for fuck’s sake, this is embarrassing enough as it is. Don’t make it worse.”
Bracing herself for the worst, she pushed the slightly ajar door open and found Sam Brand sitting in the huge soaker tub with an extremely chagrined look on his face. He had his plastered arm draped over the side, and from her vantage point at the door all she could see was his head and chest.
“I seem to be having some difficulty getting out of this damned tub,” he gritted out from between tightly clenched teeth. His red face rivaled hers.
“I should call Spencer.”
“Fuck that! I don’t need anyone else to know about this.”
“You’re injured, there’s really nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“You can help me; you’ve already seen me naked . . .”
“I haven’t,” she protested.
“Semantics. Just help me out of here, will you? My weak leg keeps slipping out from under me, the wound in my back hurts like hell, and I’ve already hit my arm on the rim about a dozen times.” She winced in sympathy. He looked furious and disgruntled, but beneath it all she could see the humiliation and pain in his eyes. The vulnerability struck a tender chord and made her want to ease his discomfort and take care of him.
“Because I thought bathing would be easier with the cast. I didn’t anticipate the difficulties of getting out of this deep fucking tub.”
“I really think Spencer—”
“Lia!” It was the first time he’d ever called her that, and the surprise at hearing her name on his lips shut her up. She liked the sound of it in his deep, gravelly voice, and it sent a shocking frisson of awareness and heat sizzling down her spine. Well, that was completely inappropriate, given the situation. “The water is cold, princess. It took me a while to admit defeat.”
“It’s lucky you had your phone close by,” she said, her eyes drifting to the phone, which he’d placed on the laundry basket beside the bath.
“Yeah.”
“Uh, well, then. I think it would be easier if we drained the bath.”
“How the hell would that be easier? I’d lose the buoyancy of the water.”
“You said your leg keeps slipping, you need some traction. Trust me, this’ll work.” He didn’t look convinced but reached forward and yanked the plug out. Lia took a step back and averted her eyes as the water level dropped at an alarming speed. They both remained awkwardly silent while the bath drained.
Lia’s eyes darted around the bathroom, unable to rest on anything for too long, but she was excruciatingly aware of the fact that Brand’s gaze never left her flushed face. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the last bit of water gurgled down the drain, but Lia was still unable to drop her eyes to the wet, naked man in the tub. He might have lost weight, but he was still a very virile man, with way too much sex appeal.
“You’re going to have to look at me at some point, Princess Lia.” He chuckled at his own nerdy pun, and Lia glanced heavenward, praying for strength. She took a deep, bracing breath and diverted her eyes down to his face, keeping her gaze very determinedly away from any other part of his body.
“You have to put a towel beneath your feet,” she said and happily looked away from him to find a towel. She spotted one, a small hand towel draped through the metal loop beside the basin, much too quickly. She dampened it slightly beneath the basin faucet and handed it to him after one quick glance at his face.
She heard the squeaking of his wet body rubbing against the porcelain of the tub as he leaned forward to comply with her instruction.
“Done,” he said, his voice strained. Right then, this was the tricky part. She removed her cardigan and hung it neatly over the towel rail. She was wearing a sweet, knee-length, pink floral dress with pretty little capped sleeves. It was one of her favorite dresses.
“Lift your arm,” she instructed, keeping her voice as brusque as possible. He obeyed, lifting the heavy cast with a wince, and Lia ducked beneath the arm, draping it over her shoulders. She was bent at an awkward angle beside the tub. “Now bear down on the towel and use your other hand to push yourself up.”
He did as she said, and with a huff of surprise from him, he stood with almost effortless ease. He was so startled by the smooth movement that he staggered a bit and she grunted as she took almost the full force of his weight while he ungracefully stepped out of the tub and unintentionally engulfed her in what could only be considered a bear hug. Lia’s entire front was pressed up against his naked, wet chest and groin, and her cheek was pressed against his.
This time there was no escaping the dart of awareness, and now that he was safely delivered from his predicament, she knew he felt it, too. He tensed, and before he could move away, she felt the unmistakable stirring of his groin against her stomach.
“Did you miss me, princess?” His breath stirred the hair at her temple, and his voice rumbled in her ear, sending a delicious vibration through her body.
“Let me go,” she demanded weakly. He didn’t say anything more, just released her and stepped back. She couldn’t help it, her eyes darted down to his groin, and she swallowed at the sight of his very impressive erection, which arched upward beautifully and kissed his abdomen just below his navel. She almost immediately redirected her gaze to his face, but judging from the amused smirk on his too-perfect mouth, he’d noticed her little lapse. She felt her cheeks heating and stepped farther away from him before turning blindly and reaching for a thick, fluffy towel draped on the towel rack on the rung below her cardigan. She tossed it back at him without a word, and he chuckled.
“I’m decent now,” he said a moment a later.
She very much doubted that.
“I’ll leave you to it, good night.” She grabbed her cardigan and was halfway down the stairs when his voice halted her.
“Lia. Please don’t leave. I want . . . I have . . .” His lack of articulation and the frustrated groan were enough to make her turn around and stare at him. He was standing on the landing, a towel wrapped around his lean waist, his beautiful chest still gleaming with the moisture from his bath. “I’d like to talk to you about something. Please.”
She hesitated.
“Please.” Three pleases. She’d have to have a heart of stone to ignore the entreaty, and her shoulders sagged.
“Fine. But get dressed first.”
“Thank you,” he said, before turning away and limping toward the bed.
Lia made her way to the dark living room and switched on a lamp before curling up on the sofa and waiting. She listened to the rustling, interspersed with impatient swearing, coming from the loft, and a few moments later Brand’s breathless and harassed voice called out to her.
“I’m dressed. Do you mind coming up here? I don’t think I can manage the stairs again tonight.”
Calling herself all kinds of fool, Lia complied. She took the stairs slowly, feeling like a condemned woman on her way to the executioner. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed—if you could call it that—only in a pair of boxer briefs, with his legs spread and his forearms braced on his thighs as he contemplated the floor between his bare feet. He raised his blond head when he heard her tread on the landing.
“This is the best I can manage with just one arm,” he said wryly. “Hope it doesn’t offend your sensibilities, Miss Priss.”
As if she hadn’t just seen his penis.
She pursed her lips and said nothing at all in response to that.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“This, actually,” he said, his crisp British accent particularly noticeable on those two words.
“I don’t understand.”
“I need help, Lia, and right now I find your company a damned sight more tolerable than anyone else’s. I was hoping you’d be willing to assist me for just a couple of weeks until this cast comes off.”
His request completely threw her, and she wasn’t sure how to respond at all.
“You’re gawking, princess. Not an attractive look.”
“Why don’t you hire a nurse?”
“Fuck that,” he dismissed, and she heaved a sigh at the language—the man really had no filter. Then again, he probably didn’t care about his crudity and how it offended her. “I’m not an invalid. I just need a bit of assistance, that’s all. And I don’t want strangers hovering around me all the time. You don’t piss me off, I don’t mind your company, and you don’t talk my ear off.”
“You barely know me. How do you know I won’t do those things?”
“Look, Mason tells me you don’t have a job at the moment. Well, I’m willing to pay you handsomely for just a little of your time.” That made her pause. A supplemental income would come in handy if she was going to rent Daisy’s house.
“How much of my time?” she asked and then regretted the question when his gaze sharpened. She would make a terrible poker player—she had no notion of playing her cards close to her chest.
“Well, I need someone to do some cooking for me. And I definitely need help shaving, as you can see I did a piss-poor job today.” He lifted his strong cleft jaw to indicate the patches of dark stubble emerging. His beard seemed to be a shade or two darker than his hair. “And driving me around when I need to go to my doctor’s appointments or just need to get the fuck out of here for a few hours. I don’t do well in one confined space for too long, I’d go crazy.”
“I won’t be available on Tuesday and Friday mornings,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.
“Why not?”
“I just got a part-time job at the preschool, they’ll need me from eight till noon.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine on those mornings.”
“This is just a job? Nothing else? No funny business or anything?”
Sam bit back a grin at the question. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and smiling now would make her suspicious. He kept his face neutral, infusing just enough curiosity and confusion into his expression to set her mind at ease.
“Funny business?”
“You know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” He added a faint frown into the mix, and she chewed on her luscious lower lip, looking uncertain. “You’ll have to elaborate.”
“I mean, you know? We have a history, and I just want to be sure that you don’t expect the same thing from me again.”
He couldn’t play dumb anymore, she’d be onto him. He allowed his expression to clear.
“Ah. You mean no fucking,” he said, and she winced. He covered his smile with his hand and pretend to clear his throat. “Of course not, princess. What kind of man would I be, offering to pay a nice girl like you for sex?”
She looked horrified by his words, as the connection clearly hadn’t occurred to her before he said it.
“I didn’t think you meant to pay me for it,” she gasped.
“I mean, aside from the fact that I don’t have to pay for it, never have, you’re definitely not that type of woman.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just meant there’d be no flirting and stuff.”
“I shall attempt to restrain myself. I know you’re looking for a husband, and I have to tell you, I’m not husband material. Flirting with you might give you the wrong impression. I would hate that. I’m not the marrying kind, Lia.” He kept his eyes level and his voice dead serious. This he needed to make absolutely clear to her, because he absolutely did intend to fuck her again. But not before his cast came off—he would use that time to get her primed and ready.
Basically it amounted to a week or two of foreplay, and by the time the cast came off and he was himself again, she would be so damned keen to get back into bed with him, she’d take him on any terms. Meantime, he was ready for a bit of fun and games with this prissy little schoolteacher.
“I really need your help, Lia,” he said, injecting as much sincerity as he could into his voice. He meant it—he needed her help around the house, he needed her help with shaving and dressing, and he definitely needed her help to stave off boredom and keep him sane. Sam had a low threshold for boredom and was always busy doing something. This enforced rest was already hell, which meant he had to find ways to occupy his body and mind.
Of course, he would have been perfectly fine with having Spencer help him out of his ridiculous bathtub predicament. Sam had actually had the man’s number up on his screen and had been a second away from calling when the thought of contacting Lia instead occurred to him. At that point it had been a no-brainer—the potential entertainment value alone had sold the idea. And while waiting for her, he’d come up with this plan.
Have her help him out around the house, butter her up, make her want him so badly that she’d be hot to trot for a blazing sexual adventure with him. By the time his cast came off, before they sealed the deal, so to speak, she’d definitely have no illusions about him being her Mr. Right. So she wouldn’t be fabricating any happily ever after fantasies about them in her prissy little head when they wound up in bed again.
She still looked uncertain, so he sweetened the pot with an amount of money that would make most people sit up and pay attention.
“That seems excessive,” she surprised him by saying. Okay, weird. If anything, the exorbitant amount had made her look a little more doubtful.
“It’s a fair amount,” he said, and she shook her head.
“It’s daylight robbery.” He blinked. What the fuck? “I can’t take that much from you, Brand. You’re in pain, you need help. To take all that money from someone so clearly in need would be unconscionable.”
She shook her head and gave him a different number, half of his original offer. Was this chick for real? Seriously, she was unemployed and probably needed the money. He’d casually asked Mason to give him the rundown on the family last night. And had impatiently waited as his friend rambled on about his newfound sister, Charlie, then Daff and Spencer. Dr. and Mrs. McGregor. Lia had been last on the list, and Mason’s information on her had been perfunctory at best.
“Lia, she’s sweet. Very sincere, always wants to help people. She’s been in a bit of a rut since her wedding fell through. Her asshole fiancé persuaded her to give up her job and she’s been unemployed since then. A shame, really—according to Daisy, she really loved that job.”
Mason had left it at that, and Sam didn’t push the man for further information, knowing that to do so would alert Mason to the fact that he had more than just a passing interest in Lia.
“Right. Okay,” he said in response to her last comment, still a bit at a loss after her refusal of his initial compensation. “Thanks.”
“I’m just happy I’m the one you approached about this. Anyone else wouldn’t have thought twice about fleecing you,” she said with a sweet smile. “You have to be more careful.”
“Yes.” He felt a little wrong-footed and couldn’t quite get his bearings. He cleared his throat, striving to regain control over the situation. “So I take it this means you’ll do it?”
“I’ll help you. I’ll come around first thing in the morning to fix your breakfast and we can take it from there, okay?”
Just like that. She just took his word for it that there’d be no “funny business,” asked for less money than he’d been willing to pay, and was willing to cook for him, shave him, and be his gofer/chauffeur for the next two weeks? It seemed too good to be true.
“Do you . . . uh . . . do you have any conditions or anything?”
“What do you mean, conditions? Like allergies or illnesses?” He stared at her, flummoxed by her bizarre turn of thought.
“No, of course not. I mean caveats to our agreement?”
“Oh.” She laughed at her assumption, the delightful sound ending on the tiniest of snorts, and shook her head. “Sorry, that was a weird conclusion to leap to, wasn’t it? No conditions. I just wanted to be sure there wouldn’t be any, y’know . . .”
“Yeah. Funny business,” he completed. And she nodded, flushing slightly.
“But it was silly of me to even think that. I mean, you’re with Laura Prentiss now. And you know that I’m looking for something else, something you’ve already claimed to have no interest in whatsoever. So with that in mind, I think this arrangement will work out fine.”
“You really think so?” he asked, fascinated, and his question made her pause and eye him in concern.
“You don’t?”
“Well, we do have some mad chemistry between us.” Pointing that out probably wasn’t in his best interests, but he couldn’t help himself. How could she just dismiss the overpowering sexual attraction between them?
“I’m sure we can overcome our baser urges. After all, I’m hardly your type and vice versa.”
“So what’s your type?”
“Not you.”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“So anybody else but me? That’s a little insulting, princess.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant not someone like you. Someone so clearly not interested in commitment, or in settling down and having kids. You’re the proverbial rolling stone, right? Well, I’m looking for a rock. Someone steady, reliable, interested in establishing some roots. And definitely not someone who gets stabbed for a living!”
“I don’t get stabbed for a living,” he protested. “I try very hard to do the exact opposite of that.”
“And yet, if it comes down to it, you’d take the bullet or the stab wound for your client, right? Which, while commendable and brave as heck, is definitely not what I’m looking for.”
“You’d rather have a coward?”
“I’d rather have a guy who’d put me, our kids, before any client. Who’d think twice before jumping in front of that bullet or placing himself in harm’s way. I’d rather have him around than in an early grave.”
“I’m trying to avoid an early grave, thank you very much,” Sam said.
“Of course you are, but with what you do . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head regretfully.
“Your perfect cowardly man could walk in front of a bus and still wind up in an early grave. He could get some dread disease or electrocute himself making toast. There are no guarantees in this life.”
“True. But his odds of living to a ripe old age are still better than yours,” she said before wincing. “I’m sorry. That sounded really harsh.”
“I’m really fucking careful,” Sam said. He could hear the defensive heat in his own voice and tried to tone it down. He wasn’t sure why he was letting this get to him. The Laura Prentiss job was never meant to be a permanent arrangement, and Sam had already admitted to himself that he didn’t want to be in the field anymore. He could tell Lia that, but the more cynical side of him acknowledged that it was better if she thought he was the wrong man for her—it meant she’d have no expectations of more from him once they resumed intimacies. “I’m a professional. None of my officers, or I, go into a job prepared or willing to die. That fatalistic bullshit makes for a piss-poor CPO.”
“CPO?”
“Close protection officer.”
“I would just have gone with bodyguard.”
“Yeah, well, you’re wrong on a lot of fronts.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said quietly. He shrugged.
“Since I’m quite clearly the exact opposite of everything you’re looking for in a man, I’m surprised you fell into bed with me in the first place.” Why was he pushing this? Sam wasn’t sure. He was just stupidly and unexpectedly offended that she thought everything about him was wrong. He took snide satisfaction in the uncomfortable blush that lit up her face and kept his challenging gaze level.
“Well, I didn’t say I don’t find you attractive,” she said carefully. “Most women would. You’re very handsome and—and . . . charming when you choose to be. I was attracted to you and I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”
“At least not until baby Delphinium’s christening,” he mused and bit back a smile at her startled look.
He remembered that? People rarely paid attention to—much less remembered the details of—her weird little tangents, so for Brand to remember the exact name she’d used was a little unprecedented.
“Uh, that’s right. So I thought why not—just once—do something a little out of the box and exciting before settling down into my normal, expected life?” Although nothing had really been going as expected in her life for the last couple of years. “I mean, you’re a good-looking, experienced man, so obviously as a healthy, heterosexual woman, I’d find you attractive and intriguing.”
“Good for a quick roll in the hay and nothing more? Why, princess, I feel cheap and used now.” Did he? His voice was light and mocking, but there was an underlying seriousness in his face and eyes.
“That’s all you wanted, a quick roll in the hay—you were quite clear on that. You’re all for meaningless hookups, remember?”
His beautiful mouth quirked at the corners as he recognized his own words. He really was a very attractive man. He had dirty-blond hair, just a shade lighter than golden brown. Six months ago it had been clipped military short, but it was longer now and wavier than she’d expected and looked so thick and silky she itched to run her fingers through it. She liked how it fell over his broad forehead. He kept impatiently shoving his free hand through it to keep it out of his eyes. He had straight, intense eyebrows darker than his hair, slanted over piercing ice-blue eyes. He had creases—from laughter or the glare of the sun, she couldn’t be sure which—radiating from the corner of his eyes that gave his rugged face a lived-in, masculine appeal. When she’d first seen him all those months ago, she’d concluded that he wasn’t as handsome as the Carlisle brothers, but in her opinion he was much, much sexier. He was only about three or four inches taller than Lia’s five foot seven inches, and before his injuries he had sported the spare, muscular build of a triathlete. Naturally he’d lost some of that muscle mass, but he could ill afford to lose the weight and she meant to help him regain some of it with her cooking.
“Yes, I do so enjoy a good, meaningless hookup,” he said in response to her previous comment. “And I hope that after our raunchy encounters, you now appreciate the merits thereof as well.”
In his very proper English accent, everything he said sounded ever so decent—until the words sank in. That was when she felt her cheeks heat up like a furnace. She hated blushing, she knew it made her look like a blotchy teen, but for some reason Sam Brand could make her light up like a beacon. It was ridiculous.
“Any time you want to revisit the sexy times with me, Lia . . .”
“That won’t happen,” she interrupted primly.
“Just thought I’d put it out there,” he said with an unrepentant smile.
“I have to get home; my parents must be wondering where I am.” She instantly regretted the words when his eyes widened in bemusement.
“Your parents? You live at home?”
“Not for long,” she said self-consciously, but instead of staring at her like she was some kind of freak, a roguish grin lit up his wicked face.
“God, you just added another illicit element to that already sexy button-down librarian schoolmarm thing you’ve got going. Can you sneak me into your room for a make-out session while your parents are watching telly downstairs?”
Her jaw dropped, and he winced.
“Yeah, that’s borderline deviant behavior, isn’t it? Still, you’re the walking answer to every man’s forbidden prayer. All you have to do is tell me you went to Catholic school and were considering becoming a nun and I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“Ugh, I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, princess. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”
Lia made her way to the stairs but paused on the landing to look back at him. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her.
“Do you need anything before I leave? Something from the kitchen, perhaps?”
“A good-night kiss?” The lilt in his voice was so ridiculously hopeful that Lia couldn’t bring herself to work up any kind of anger at the suggestion.
“I doubt you’ll find one of those in the kitchen,” she said, and he laughed.
“Tuck me in?”
“’Night, Brand,” she said with a long-suffering sigh. Then, because boundaries were important, she felt obligated to remind, “And remember our agreement, no funny business. Asking for a kiss qualifies as funny business.”
“Sorry, princess, it won’t happen again. I’m just loopy after taking my pain meds. Send me a text when you get home safely so that I’ll know not to send in the cavalry to come rescue you.”
“Will do.” He smiled at her response.
“Good night, Lia.”
Sam woke up with a headache, a healthy appetite, and a huge hard-on. Dreams of Lia McGregor had definitely contributed to today’s top-quality morning wood and were probably also at fault for the terrible headache pounding away beneath his skull. He hadn’t slept very soundly—the constant dreams of Lia under him, over him, next to him, her mouth on him, her hands stroking and petting his body, had startled him awake throughout the night. And his frustration at finding himself alone in bed hadn’t helped the situation.
He’d finally resorted to a hands-on session just before dawn. Most unsatisfying wank of his life. His left hand couldn’t quite master the technique or grip—it was either too weak or too strong—and the whole experience had left him feeling irritated and unsated.
He stretched, groaned, and cracked open a sticky eyelid, confirming that it was indeed light outside. Something smelled amazing. He sniffed at the air . . . that was definitely bacon. Fully awake now, he pushed himself out of bed and limped his way over to the loft’s waist-high glass wall. Lia was bustling around the kitchen, the bright morning sunlight catching the warm auburn notes in her dark-brown hair. From his vantage point high up in Mason’s clever aerie, he could watch her unobserved for a few long moments. She really was pretty, with her expressive, thickly lashed gray eyes set beneath perfectly arched eyebrows. Her soft, full lips had a slight upward tilt that gave one the impression she was always on the verge of smiling, which contrasted sharply with the underlying sadness he sometimes glimpsed in her luminous eyes. High cheekbones and a delicate chin completed the pretty picture, and while she wasn’t a raving beauty, her prettiness had a wholesome charm, which was not something that usually appealed to Sam. His attraction to her definitely stemmed from her prim and proper personality. That unconscious aura of untouchability and perfect poise she presented to the world challenged him, and Sam was fundamentally incapable of backing down from a challenge.
Even now he felt everything in him tightening in anticipation of their next encounter. He found himself grinning like an idiot at the prospect of talking to her again, which was bound to be entertaining. It always was.
“Morning,” he called, and she nearly dropped a skillet in fright. She carefully placed it on the stove top and stared up at him in admonition.
“You scared me,” she chastised.
“You knew I was up here,” he pointed out.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I’m not.”
“Maybe you should get dressed,” she suggested, her face bright red as she kept her eyes determinedly above his waist. Sam snorted, only now registering his nudity and the fact that his erection had found renewed vigor in her presence.
“You know I need help dressing,” he said, injecting a fair amount of misery into his voice. Her eyes flickered with sympathy for a moment before they narrowed and the concern in her pretty face transformed into a full-on glare.
“You were wearing boxer briefs when I left last night,” she reminded. “You managed to get out of them without a problem. You can get into them with equal ease, I’m sure.”
Busted.
“You’re a heartless woman, Dahlia McGregor,” he said on a dejected sigh before turning around. He grinned at the sound of her gasp, hoping she enjoyed the cheeky eyeful of ass he’d so considerately gifted her with.
“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” she called.
Lia ran a shaky hand over her face and muffled a groan behind her fingers. This was probably the most ill-advised thing she’d ever done in her life. Why did she think she could handle this? Sam Brand was too good-looking, too sexy, and too darned arrogant and self-assured by far, and Lia had been an idiot for thinking she could handle him.
She took a moment to compose herself before sucking in a bracing breath.
“Woman up, Lia. You can handle two weeks. The man is as weak as a puppy, for goodness’ sake. Get over this.” Ineffectual and unconvincing pep talk over, she shook herself and went back to work.
She had everything prepared when she heard Brand’s footsteps coming down the stairs. She threw back her shoulders and turned to face him with a bright smile, which immediately faltered when she noted first his naked chest, then his scowl, and finally the scrap of fabric he had clutched in his left hand.
“Trouble?” He didn’t bother answering her, merely shoved his left hand in her direction. It was clutching a cotton shirt. She took the shirt gingerly and shook it out to assess it. The left sleeve was inside out, as if he’d had his arm in it and then pulled it back out without much care. The right sleeve was cut down the seam to allow the cast to slide in with ease. But clearly, Brand hadn’t found it very easy, if his lethal glower was anything to go by.
Lia didn’t say anything. She dragged the left sleeve the right side out and shook the shirt vigorously to get rid of the creases.
“Hold out your left arm,” she instructed, keeping her voice crisp and businesslike. He obeyed sullenly and she slid the sleeve up before focusing on the other arm. She made short work of that, too, and soon found herself standing in front of him, way too close for comfort, while she buttoned the shirt. She was so aware of his closeness, his heat, and the wonderful, masculine smell of his cologne that she couldn’t control the shaking of her fingers and she botched the job. He said nothing when she had to start over, just stood quietly, his breath ruffling the hair at her temple. The tips of her fingers inadvertently brushed against the silky skin of his chest and he shuddered, his breath escaping on a slightly muffled groan.
“Sorry,” she murmured, her voice quivering. She tried to take more care not to touch him, but she was swiftly turning into a wreck, her hands shaking almost uncontrollably now. She paused and let her hands fall to her sides, where she clenched them into fists to regain some semblance of control, before she attempted the task again.
She was on the last button and nearly jumped out of her skin when he reached out and brushed his fingertips against her cheek.
“You have flour on your face,” he explained, his voice ridiculously gravelly.
Lia left the top two buttons unfastened and stepped away from his heat, patting at her hectically flushed cheeks in what she hoped looked like an attempt to dust any residual flour from her face. Rather than what it truly was—a really flustered move to cool down and gather her composure.
After a moment of frantic confusion, she finally took a long look at him before frowning.
“Well, this is completely impractical,” she noted. The split shirtsleeve hung uselessly from his shoulder. “Whose bright idea was this?”
“My mother altered some of my clothing to help me acclimate to my infirmity,” he said. Lia immediately felt bad for her harsh observation—and an overwhelming curiosity about his mother.
Sam watched the play of emotions on Lia’s face. She wanted to ask him about his mother. He was sure of it. He hoped she resisted the impulse. He didn’t particularly want to discuss his private life with her—it wasn’t any of her business. She was meant to be a distraction, even if she didn’t quite know that yet, and nosing her way into his private affairs would make her more of a nuisance than a distraction.
“I have to remove this sleeve,” she finally said, her natural reserve kicking in, and Sam barely refrained from exhaling a relieved sigh. Instead he cast a rueful glance down at the ruined sleeve. He had packed mostly loose tank tops, which were easy enough to get into, but his mother had taken it upon herself to destroy several of his expensive dress shirts during one of her—as usual, ill-advised—acts of maternal concern. And because she’d been hovering and helping like a concerned mama bear during the packing process, Sam couldn’t bring himself to leave the mangled shirts behind.
He’d had no intention of ever wearing them, precisely because buttoning them up with his left hand was a tedious process and the useless split sleeve looked ridiculous. In typical Mimsy fashion, she hadn’t thought things through, but he had politely thanked her for her help rather than hurt her feelings by pointing out the flaws in her plan. Now he found himself silently thanking her for ruining some of his best shirts, because they suited his purpose.
Sam was turned on by how very turned on Lia had been. And try though she might, she couldn’t hide her reaction from him. The uneven breathing, the trembling fingers, the hectic flush in her cheeks—though Miss McGregor could dissemble as much as she wanted, Sam knew exactly how performing such an intimate task for him had affected her. But Sam was dangerously susceptible to falling prey to his own little game. If his response to the shirt thing was any indication, he would go stir-crazy with lust long before his cast came off.
“Something smells fantastic.” He forced a cheerful note into his hoarse voice, and it seemed to snap her back to the present.
“Yes. Yes, of course! Your breakfast. Please have a seat, I’ll just—just . . .” She paused and inhaled deeply, patting at her flushed cheeks again. “Uh, just get rid of this sleeve and feed you. I’ve left a lasagna in the fridge for lunch, and I’ll pop around with your dinner this evening.”
The flurry of words made him frown.
“You’re not staying?” he asked shortly, and her mouth snapped shut as she stared at him in surprise.
“No. Of course not. I have a lot of errands to run this morning.”
“Then what the fuck am I paying you for?” He was seriously aggravated that she’d just swan off and leave him on his own all day.
“Cooking, cleaning, doing some driving, and maybe helping you with some of the more difficult tasks. I do have a life, you know? I didn’t expect to have to stay here all day and wipe the sweat from your fevered brow,” she said tartly, and Sam bit back a smile at the show of defiance.
“What kind of errands?”
“Various errands,” she hedged. Why was she hedging? What did she have to hide?
“I’ll join you,” he decided.
“You’d be bored.”
“I’ll be bored here, too; I’d rather be bored with you than alone.”
“It’s not a good idea. You should rest.”
“I’ve rested enough. I’ll go crazy in this place by myself all day.”
“You should have thought of that before coming here.”
“That’s a very uncharitable sentiment, princess.”
“Fine, you can tag along”—as if he were a child—“but not one word of complaint when you find yourself bored out of your mind.”
“That’s the spirit,” he praised, and she glared at him. How adorable was that? The cutest little glare ever. It made him smile, which made her forehead wrinkle even more.
She shook her head, grumbling beneath her breath as she turned away to rummage through one of the drawers. She returned moments later, clutching a pair of kitchen shears.
“Sit down,” she commanded, and he meekly dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. He was starting to like this bossy streak of hers. She made short work of the sleeve, and Sam tried not to wince when she tossed the remnants of his Dior into the garbage.
She bustled around a bit more before returning with a mug of coffee clutched in one hand and a plate in the other.
“It’s probably gone cold by now,” she said, and Sam straightened in anticipation, hoping whatever it was tasted as good as it smelled. He didn’t even care if it had cooled down. He was starving. She handed him the mug, which he accepted with a grateful smile, and carefully placed the plate in front of him, before turning away and picking up a small bowl and another plate from the counter next to the stove top. She positioned those on the table as well.
Sam barely registered her movements as he blinked down at the first plate in consternation. It was . . . food. Of that he was certain. It smelled good, looked good, but . . .
“Why the fuck is my breakfast frowning at me?” He could hear the outraged confusion in his own voice. It very accurately reflected what he was feeling. His perfectly fried sunny-side-up eggs were the eyes, crispy rashers of bacon formed frowny eyebrows above them, four grilled tomato wedges were angled into a downturned mouth, and the solitary button mushroom in the center of the plate could only be the nose. There were a few more buttery mushrooms tucked into a bowl beside the plate of toast. The stack of pancakes she popped down next to the toast seemed like overkill, but Sam wasn’t going to complain about the sheer volume of food. Not when it all looked and smelled so good.
But that face . . . He frowned up at Lia, who was blushing again. She slid her eyes away from his and sucked her luscious bottom lip into her mouth. It very nearly succeeded in drawing his attention from his angry-looking breakfast, but one glance down at his plate was enough to distract him from the urge to suck that lip into his own mouth.
“Sorry, I . . . it was an impulse. You kind of annoyed me just now.” He nearly laughed at that reluctant confession. If she found that annoying, his meals were going to look permanently pissed off with him. She didn’t strike him as a very impulsive person, so that information was neatly tucked away for further scrutiny later. Right now, despite the frowny face, he was looking forward to devouring his delicious-smelling breakfast.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said agreeably and tucked into his meal with gusto, destroying the censorious bastard on his plate in no time at all. He even managed to down a couple of pancakes after polishing off the eggs and bacon. No sense having them go to waste. And he needed to regain some weight.
Lia was at the sink, doing dishes, and Sam watched her while he ate. She was wearing a perfectly pretty knee-length dress. This one was pastel pink with thinner straps at the shoulders and a white flounce at the hem. Ice cream on a hot summer’s day—that’s what she reminded him of. She wore a frilly white pinafore apron to protect the dress, and the combination made her look like a 1960s housewife.
She turned and caught him staring, and the bright-red flush on her cheeks clashed with the delicate pink of her dress.
“Are you done?” she asked, nodding down at his plate, where nothing but a few streaks of yolk remained of the angry face.
“Yes, thank you. That was quite delicious, princess. You’re a good cook.”
“Any idiot can make a couple of fried eggs, pancakes, and some bacon.”
“True, but few can make them taste this good.” The compliment flustered her, that much was obvious. She patted at her already neat hair—she always seemed to be patting at things when she was out of sorts—and picked up the empty dishes from the table.
“I’ll clean these and we can get going. You may want to grab a jacket, it’s a bit chilly today.”
Sam cast a dubious look outside. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and there wasn’t a breeze stirring so much as a leaf on the massive cherry tree outside the kitchen window.
“If you say so,” he acquiesced gracefully. He wasn’t about to argue when he’d already gotten his way.