Peyton was still wound up after she made three batches of cookies.

She’d finally given in to the urge, telling herself that she didn’t have to give them to Scott. She did want him to get over her. Probably. So she couldn’t make him cookies. And not because of the possible cookiegasms, but because Scott would definitely realize that they were more than the best combination of flour and sugar he’d ever tasted.

So, instead she’d made cookies. Not cookies for Scott. Not cookies shaped or decorated like anything special. Just round cookies with colored frosting. And they now filled the trays in the front display case of the bakery. Cookiegasms for everyone but Scott.

But she was still wound up. It was late. He was home—Kyle had texted to tell her he’d dropped Scott off and done his dressing change. And yes, she totally heard the sarcasm in Kyle’s text. But she wasn’t quite ready to go and be all girlfriend-y. Worse, she wasn’t ready to go there to try to seduce him.

Which was the weirdest thing of all. That was the deal, the plan. He was going to push the relationship thing. She was going to push the sex thing. They both knew it. But she was hesitant, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on why.

So she was driving very slowly toward his house and hoping to remember that she needed to do something else that would keep her out and busy for a while.

The lights were still on in the Come Again as she turned onto the highway, taking the very long and not-at-all-direct route to Scott’s. It was after midnight, and while, in Nebraska, bars could stay open until two, the Come Again was almost always shut down by midnight. There was the occasional party or special event, and during the summer festival it stayed open later, but after midnight was only for the real diehards on regular weekends, and there weren’t many real diehards in little Sapphire Falls.

But if the lights were on, that meant people. And Peyton could use some people right now. She’d been alone with her own thoughts far too long. That was, clearly, not a good thing.

She pulled in, parking next to Derek’s truck. Well, he’d likely tell Scott she’d stopped down here, but she didn’t care. As long as she could keep the bartender talking about anything other than his friend, she’d be good. And Derek was totally the type of guy she could threaten with “say the name Scott to me and I’ll start buying my liquor in Kingston instead of here”. Frankly, that would put a noticeable dent in Derek’s budget.

Peyton grabbed her bag and started for the door, relieved to find it unlocked and all of the lights in the main room blazing. But no people.

She stepped into the room, letting the door shut behind her. Then she heard voices coming from the back room.

The Come Again was the kind of place where everyone felt at home. And considering she’d known the owner, Bryan Murray, another Sapphire Falls native, her entire life, Peyton was completely comfortable rounding the bar and poking her head through the swinging door that separated the bar area from the back, where the kitchen and storage were.

Derek was there with Mitch Dugan.

“Hey, guys.”

They both swiveled. “Hey, Peyton,” Derek greeted. “Thought you’d be rushing home to your patient.”

She shrugged, trying to look completely nonchalant about how the words “rushing home” hit her. Home was the tiny house she rented from Mrs. Bernard. It was fine. All of her stuff fit. She had a bed and a shower and a kitchen. And a garage—that was big during the winter in Nebraska.

But it was just a house. A house where she had her stuff. Where she could do her online business and sleep safely and hang out doing home pedicures with her girlfriends with margaritas once in a while. But it was never a place she was excited to go.

She was excited to go to Scott’s.

Which was why she was here instead.

“Kyle said he took care of the bandages and he took his medication, so he’ll probably be out pretty fast,” she said. All of which was true. And not why she was here instead of there.

“He looked a little worn out,” Derek agreed. “Weird to see big old Scott get tired from sitting on the couch.”

“Well, he was just shot yesterday,” she said.

Derek held up a hand. “Don’t come at me, wildcat. I know. I get it. You don’t need to defend your boy to me.”

She frowned. She hadn’t been coming at him. She might have snapped a little more than necessary…

“You guys hanging out here for a while?” she asked.

Derek nodded. “Mitch and Andi are adding on for me.”

“Adding on?” Peyton asked, moving farther into the room.

“We’re putting in a brick oven for pizzas,” Derek said with a wide grin. “And some other stuff. We need more space, so Mitch and Andi are doing an addition.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” Peyton said. “It’s kind of late for hammering and sawing, isn’t it?”

“We’re far enough away from any residential areas, we shouldn’t make a lot of noise,” Mitch said. “Working after closing means we don’t have to disrupt business hours and we can still do other jobs during the day.”

“You and Andi don’t need to sleep?” Peyton asked. Andi and Mitch were older than her by a couple of years, but she knew them both pretty well. They showed up at river parties from time to time and were hilarious. Come to think of it, Peyton couldn’t remember ever seeing either of them at a social event without the other.

“We’ll sleep after the business is up and really running,” Mitch said. “For now, we’re taking on every project we can, and Derek’s promised to keep the coffeepot on.”

“Ooh, coffee,” Peyton said. She turned to Derek. “As long as you guys are going to be here anyway, do you mind if I take one of your tables? I have some work to do and my house is too quiet.”

“And Scott’s house is too full of Scott?” Derek guessed.

“Something like that,” Peyton agreed without elaborating.

Fortunately, Derek Wright wasn’t really an elaborating kind of guy. “Sure, whatever you want. As long as Mitch’s music doesn’t bother you.”

Mitch gave her a grin as he crossed to crank the volume on his beat-up radio that was covered with paint splatters, glue and what almost looked like tar. Classic AC/DC spilled out, and Peyton nodded.

“I can live with that.”

It wasn’t often that these four walls heard anything that wasn’t country, which Peyton appreciated, but she could handle classic rock.

This music made her think of her dad, and the music he listened to while he messed with their car in the driveway or did yard or housework when she’d been growing up. Stupid, considering everything between her and her parents, but it made her a little nostalgic and tightened her chest. Probably because when Dan had been doing that kind of work, he was truly happy. He smiled and would sing along and would beckon Peyton off the top porch step and teach her about motors and weeding and gardening and fixing shutters and cleaning out gutters and all of the things he did to keep the house up. And to avoid being cooped up inside.

Winter had been the worst—fewer outdoor projects and weather that made it tough to be out anyway. He’d worked in his little shop in the basement, but he hadn’t been able to crank up the music and sing along inside. Outside, he’d been in control—mowing the lawn in perfect lines, planting the tomatoes in perfect rows, keeping the house painted and fixed up and looking nice.

Because inside, things were…chaotic at worst, unpredictable at best. He could control things and keep them neat outside. Inside, he couldn’t do any of that. Either Jo was depressed and in bed, sometimes for days, and they kept quiet and tried to keep things peaceful; or she was manic and excited—which could go from her suddenly wanting to paint the kitchen pink to her not sleeping for a couple of days at a time.

Peyton never had been convinced that she and her dad really handled Jo well in any of her swings, but they did what they could to try to help. Sometimes she let them. Sometimes she threw plates.

There was certainly never a dull day, which made Peyton wonder, not for the first time, if that was why she had a hell of a time sitting still, being quiet and just…being.

“Well, make yourself at home,” Derek said, waving to the front. “Mi bar-o es su bar-o.”

She laughed. “I don’t think that’s how you say that in Spanish.”

He gave her a wink. “El café está en el frente.”

She got that one. The coffee was in front. She poured a cup and took her favorite table. It was the perfect distance between the bar and the stage where people performed live once a month, and she always took the chair where she could see the door—and the people coming and going.

She opened her computer, took a deep breath, and opened the nursing school site.

She was going to do this. She was going to take the classes.

An hour later, Peyton yawned. She realized that she hadn’t even finished her cup of coffee and it was after one a.m. She needed to get to Scott’s. He was very likely deep asleep, but if he woke up and she wasn’t there, he’d worry.

A warmth spiraled through her with that thought. It was nice to think that someone would worry when she wasn’t home. Or even notice, for that matter. And maybe even more than that, he’d be disappointed she wasn’t there. Peyton smiled as she packed up her stuff, dumped out the cold coffee, and said goodnight to Derek and Mitch.

She wasn’t a big fan of going home, usually. Growing up, she’d purposefully spent extra time at school—not necessarily studying or participating in chess club, but there were always activities going on until well after dinnertime. And detention worked too. She’d become a cheerleader, not because she was full of pep and school spirit exactly, but cheerleading practice, games, and weekend clinics and competitions kept her away from home. She’d also spent a lot of time at friends’ houses, and when girlfriends weren’t around or available, boyfriends always were. Sure, she’d done more kissing with the boyfriends, but that was a small price to pay.

Now, as an adult, she didn’t like going home any more than she had as a kid. Her house was dark and empty. So, the Come Again, the bakery, and again, friends’ places and boyfriends’ houses were her go-tos. She was even kind of looking forward to Hope having her baby so that Peyton could babysit. That would be a great excuse for hanging out at their place.

But going to Scott’s was a whole new thing. Going to Scott’s didn’t feel just like a way of avoiding being home alone. She had a reason for being there. He needed her. And, yeah, it felt nice to think that he wanted her there. Her friends and boyfriends always liked to see her, of course. She was welcome in any of their houses anytime, really. But Scott wanted her in a way that no one else ever had. And while it worried her at times, and drove her a little crazy, it mostly made her feel special and cared for.

She could definitely feel how risky this was. Already. The more time she spent with him and the more she liked it, the needier and more dependent she could get.

Peyton scowled as she pulled into Scott’s driveway. She did not want to be someone Scott took care of because she couldn’t handle being alone or function without someone looking out for her. And he would do that. Just as she’d told Heather on the phone. Scott took care of people. He especially felt compelled to take care of her.

They could both get sucked into this never-ending circle of neediness.

But, she could make sure that didn’t happen. Probably. Maybe. One thing her mother had never done was take care of Dan. Their relationship was sadly one-sided.

Maybe if Peyton was taking care of Scott too, then all of that dependence and clinginess wouldn’t happen. Or it would happen equally. But she needed to work on making her side equal. Then that would be okay, wouldn’t it? He went to Kyle’s tonight, she’d started her nursing classes, and now they were going to spoon all night in bed.

She could just ignore the part where she’d been disappointed that they weren’t spending the evening together. She’d get over that. Next time, he’d hang with his friends and she’d spend time with hers, and it would be normal and not needy at all.

That last thought got her out of the car and into the house. But her heart was thumping hard as she brushed her teeth and put her pajamas on. She was about to go to bed with Scott Hansen. But real bed. Not sex bed.

She didn’t do sleepovers. She didn’t have guys spend the night and she rarely slept over at their houses. If she did, she did not cuddle. She liked her space. She didn’t like to share blankets.

But when she slipped into Scott’s room and took in the sight of him fast asleep, blanket kicked to one side, wearing only a pair of boxers, his hair tousled, the scruff on his face, his muscled arms and legs sprawled out across the bed, all she felt was her heart turn over in her chest and the anticipation of being up against that big, hot body. She wanted him, but she also wanted the way he made her feel safe and desired. And not even desired in a physical sense, but in a sense that made it seem he just wanted her with him, all the time, for…whatever.

When she did slide into the small space that was left in the bed, he rolled to his side toward her and settled one big hand on her stomach. It wasn’t cuddling exactly, but it felt possessive, like he’d naturally reached out for her even in his sleep. And then he mumbled, “cookies,” and she grinned.

And yeah, she felt the definite scary-but-I-don’t-think-I-ever-want-to-shake-this feeling that she was finally home.

* * *

Scott woke slowly. He rolled to his back, squinting in the sunlight from the window. He flexed his hand. But it, and his bed, was empty beside him. So why did he feel as if he’d been holding on to something?

Then he smelled it. The distinct, oh-baby scent of pancakes.

Peyton was here.

Had she slept in here with him as promised? What time had she come in? Had she worn pajamas? All of those questions tripped through his head and the next thing he knew, he’d rolled and put his face into the pillow next to him.

Sure enough, it smelled like her. Cinnamon and sugar. His favorite.

He smiled. Then he frowned. Peyton Wells had been in his bed, and he hadn’t even awakened for it?

Great.

He started to sit up, but his leg instantly reminded him of why Peyton was here in the first place and why he’d clearly slept later than he ever did. The sun was high and bright through the window. The pain pills had done their job, if part of the goal was him sleeping like the dead.

He was surprised he’d fallen asleep at all. He’d wanted to wait until Peyton had come in. He’d been half worried that she wouldn’t come back at all. But the last thing he remembered was his head hitting the pillow.

Slowly, feeling like he was eighty, he got out of bed and pulled on a pair of sports shorts.

He grabbed his crutch, stopped in the bathroom, and then headed for the kitchen.

And came up short in the doorway. Peyton was still in her pajamas—such that they were. They consisted of a baby-blue spaghetti-strapped tank and a pair of shorts that hung loosely on her hips and barely covered the curve of her ass. They were also light blue and had puffy white sheep all over them. As she reached and bent and stirred and flipped the pancakes, eggs and bacon that she had all going at once, the top pulled up, exposing smooth, firm skin on her back and stomach. The shorts rode high one moment, then low the next, making Scott wonder if they’d slip right off with a twist in just the wrong—or right—direction.

And then, of course, there were the pancakes, bacon and eggs. He had never considered himself a guy whose heart was connected to his stomach. He’d been cooking for himself—and at times, others—for years now. He did not believe a woman’s place was in the kitchen and he was not a caveman. But the sight of Peyton Wells cooking him breakfast after sleeping in his bed, even after not having sex in that bed—hell, maybe because they hadn’t had sex in that bed—was the most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen. The woman could have anything from his at this moment. And if that made him a caveman, well…he’d just have to never admit it to anyone.

Especially the girl flipping pancakes at the moment. He knew for a fact she knew self-defense moves that could put him flat on his back. He’d taught her. And she knew how to shoot a gun, swing a baseball bat, and use a can of mace. None of which he’d taught her.

And she had a temper. And a what-the-hell streak a mile and a half wide. And didn’t put up with a lot of shit from anyone.

He could imagine how much he’d hurt if he said something like “damn, baby, you can fry my bacon anytime.”

She might actually fry his bacon.

But that was one of the things he loved about her. There was no guessing.

“’Mornin’, Trouble,” he said, moving farther into the kitchen.

She swung around, spatula in hand, dab of batter on her cheek, and gave him a huge smile. And Scott had to grab for the nearest chair before he fell over. Because he hadn’t even realized that he had a Betty Crocker fantasy, but sure as hell, he was hard as steel at the sight of that spatula.

But then her smile died, and she looked as if she’d just forgotten how to breathe.

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes widened and her mouth opened. Her eyes roamed over him, and Scott felt as if she was actually touching his shoulders, chest, abs and lower.

He opened his mouth to say something—though what, he had no idea—but just then his eyes made it past her face and the spatula to take in the sight of her from the front.

And holy hell.

Her nipples poked against the soft, thin cotton of her shirt, a strip of bare belly showed below the top, and the waistband of her shorts clung to her curves of her hips, ready to slip down at any moment.

She was the personification of sex and breakfast. Two of Scott’s favorite things.

“Um, you’re not dressed,” she finally said.

“You either.”

She looked down. “I’m…dressed.” She looked back up at him, then down at his lap. “Oh.” Then she set the spatula down and headed for the bedroom. “Be right back.”

He thought about grabbing her as she went past, but she was too quick and, interestingly, made a point of taking a wide path around him.

Okay, so something was up. He eased himself into the nearest chair, stretching his leg out under the table.

She was back in two minutes and went directly to the food and flipped things and scooped things and plated things, not missing a beat. But now she wore another pair of leggings, blue ones with what looked like cupcakes on them, and a zippered hoodie.

He frowned. She still looked hot—and smelled like pancakes—but now she was more covered up. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. Mostly because Peyton typically was trying to uncover when they were together.

“Here you go,” she said, avoiding eye contact as she set a huge plate of food down in front of him.

“Thanks.” Again, he thought about grabbing her, but she was already back across the kitchen, pouring him milk and coffee.

He was ready for her, though, when she set those down. He hooked an arm around her waist as she started to turn away and pulled her up against his side.

She let out a shaky breath.

“What are you doing?” he asked. She wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t try to push away from him either, but she was holding herself stiffly. He settled his palm on the curve of her hip.

“I’m just making breakfast.”

“Breakfast could be cold cereal and toast.”

“You don’t like pancakes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with a laugh. “I love pancakes. And bacon. And scrambled eggs.”

“Well, then…” She shrugged. “Breakfast.”

“But this is breakfast that takes a lot more time and effort,” he pressed. “If your job is just to keep me alive until I heal, the cereal would have worked.” Why did he so want to hear her admit that she’d gone above and beyond here? He wasn’t sure exactly, but something was definitely compelling him to push.

“I just…thought I’d do something nice,” she said.

She wasn’t looking at him, but Scott noticed the most astonishing thing when he looked up into her face. She seemed embarrassed. Or unsure. That was more accurate. She seemed almost—dare he even think it?—shy about making him a big breakfast.

And if hard nipples and spatulas got him going in the morning, then Peyton Wells acting shy about something made him want to spread her out on the table, cover her with pancake syrup and devour her from head to toe.

He squeezed her hip and tried to get himself under control. Ravishing a woman for being shy around him was probably not totally cool. “That’s really sweet,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“Sweet isn’t really a word that applies to you often, Trouble,” he said huskily. He still wanted her to admit that she’d done something special here. For him. And he knew she would take the comment as he’d meant it—affectionately. She tried not to be sweet, tried not to be too nice. Or predictable. Or any number of other words. But there were glimmers of the sweetness at times. A part of Scott could see it even when she was swinging a bat at a guy’s headlights, because she was standing up for someone she loved.

Derek had been right last night. She did take care of her people. And she was taking care of Scott right now. Not just by helping him out with the basics because of his injury, but beyond that. He was one of her people. He really fucking liked that. But he also really wanted to hear her admit it.

“Well, I decided to show you that I can do more than cause you trouble,” she said. Her voice was soft.

He swallowed and worked on not running his hand up under her hoodie. She probably still had that pajama top on. She hadn’t been gone long enough to do more than pull these clothes on over the tiny top and shorts.

Instead, he turned his head and put his face against her stomach, breathing deep. She smelled like Peyton—the combo of her body wash and detergent that he was so used to—but she also smelled like pancakes and bacon and sugar and cinnamon and all kinds of delicious things. She was holding her breath as he rubbed his face back and forth, dragging the material of her hoodie across her skin.

“I want to eat you up,” he said gruffly.

He heard her little gasp.

“And not just because I want you with every fiber of my body, and not just because you smell like everything I love, but because you are sweet to me, Peyton, even when you’re not trying. And you being here in the morning when I wake up makes me happier than I can even believe.”

He just rested his forehead on her stomach, breathing in and out, letting her absorb all of that.

Then, finally, he felt her hand slide up into his hair and rest on his head. Again, definitely not pushing him away. Maybe even holding him closer.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Her voice was husky and soft as she spoke, and Scott felt his cock stir even from that.

“Just soaking you in,” he said. He lifted his head and looked up at her. Watching her face, he slid his hands from her hips to her waist, then higher, inching up her hoodie and, sure enough, the pajama top underneath. He put his mouth against the smooth skin he bared just above her belly button and felt her fingers curl into his scalp.

“Scott.”

“Peyton.”

“Not Trouble?” she asked.

He looked up. “The best possible kind.”

He kissed her, then licked, then kissed again. She tasted as good as she smelled. He didn’t need pancake syrup. She was all he needed. He scooted his chair back with his good leg, then shifted her so she was directly in front of him, the table against her butt.

“Scott, I’m—”

He slid his hands higher, cupping her breasts. Those sweet little nipples pressed into his palms and he groaned. So did she.

But then her hands covered his. “Why?”

He grinned. “You did something normal by making me breakfast. So you get something sexy.” That was kind of the deal. She was supposed to be the one pushing the sexy stuff, but honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference between normal and sexy in the midst of spatulas and skimpy PJs. Making breakfast in her pajamas should have been one of the most normal things he’d ever seen Peyton do. But it was also easily the hottest. It was all mixing up into one gigantic ball of…want. And he was going to go with it.

“Pancakes make you horny?” There was a little more sass in her tone now.

“You make me horny, Peyton.” He said it with sincerity.

“You’re thinking about the syrup comment yesterday, right?” she asked.

Heat slammed into him, remembering her saying that she wouldn’t have pancakes in bed with him without pouring syrup on his cock and licking it off. “Well, I—”

Suddenly she pushed away from the table and stepped out from between his legs.

He frowned. “What’s going on?”

Peyton cleared her throat as she turned to face him again, her arms crossed now, the very picture of I’m-trying-to-be-tough-about-this. “So, the thing is, I might…like to see if we could maybe try…not sleeping together.”

Scott felt his eyebrows rise. He tightened his fingers that were itching to touch her. She’d stumbled over all of that. Almost acting shy again. And then there was what she’d actually said. “Try not sleeping together,” he repeated.

She nodded. “You know, do things…your way. The other not-sex stuff.”

She sounded like she was talking about trying skydiving and was really not sure it was a good idea at all, but she was trying to gather her courage.

Scott wasn’t sure what to say to all of this. No, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t sure where to start saying things. “I thought you told me yesterday that any relationship with you would absolutely include sex. Like wake-the-neighbors sex,” he said, proud that his voice sounded totally calm and composed. And not like he wanted to say “no fucking way are we not sleeping together”. He’d just gotten to the point where he was ready to do things her way. And now she was changing her mind?

“Well, I did,” she admitted. “But I say a lot of things before I think them through.”

Okay, he couldn’t argue with that.

“And I was thinking last night that…” She trailed off, wetting her lips, clearly hesitant.

“You were thinking what last night?”

He liked that she’d been thinking about him. About them. She hadn’t just left his house and gone to work and done her thing. He’d been on her mind. And it had been about more than his pain pills.

She nodded. “That after all you’ve done for me, all the times you’ve been there when I needed you, that it maybe wouldn’t be so bad for me to do things the way you need to do them. Or at least try to.”

Scott cleared his throat. He appreciated the sentiment. Except that it meant not sleeping together, of course. “I don’t know that that’s necessary.”

“It is,” she insisted.

“Why?”

“Because that’s easy. Because I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you.”

“You wanted to pour syrup on my cock since you first saw me? That’s a very specific urge.”

She shifted her weight and Scott let himself believe it was because hearing the word “cock” turned her on.

“I’ve wanted to do fun, crazy, sexy, sticky things with you since I first saw you,” she said. “That’s easy. And easy is my go-to. Instead of dealing with feelings and doing things the hard way—like getting to know you and opening up and risking that this whole thing could blow up and end terribly—I went easy, trying to get you into bed, mouthing off, getting into trouble so you would show up.”

Scott got to his feet. He’d known that some of her trouble was to see if he’d show up again and again. She’d been testing him, because her dad hadn’t shown up every time, her friends didn’t show up every time. No one did. But he’d been determined to be different.

“Pey—”

“And now, I want to do it the hard way. I want to do this for you, the way you’ve wanted to from the beginning.”

“For the record,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve wanted to do fun, crazy, sexy, sticky things with you since I first saw you too.”

She took a deep breath. “But you didn’t. You wanted more. And that was hard—difficult, right?”

He nodded. “It was. Both.”

She apparently decided not to comment on the hard thing. “So, I want to do that for you now.” Her voice went soft. “Because I know how that made me feel.”

“How did it make you feel?”

She held up a hand, holding him off. “Special. Like I was worth that effort. And I want you to feel that way.”

Scott’s heart slammed against his chest. God, this woman slayed him. She had no idea.

“Well, let me tell you something, Trouble,” he said, low and firm. “You wanting me made me feel pretty fucking amazing too. I don’t want you to think that resisting you all of these months wasn’t the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. I want you to know that I want you more than I want my next breath. That the idea of touching you, kissing you, wrapping myself around you, makes me hard as a rock and ready to do anything to make it happen. That your mouth on mine is my idea of heaven. Yes, I want to eat dinner and breakfast with you, I want to text you when I’m out with my friends, I want to nap on the couch while you work on your computer, I want you to slide into bed next to me even if we go to bed at different times. But I also want to know every inch of your body, every sound you make, every place to touch you to make you completely mine. You can walk around this house in hoodies all you want, but nothing will make me not want you. You got that?”

She was breathing fast, her fingers digging into her arms where she had them crossed. She lifted her chin, but he could see the emotions swirling in her big blue eyes. Those eyes. He wanted to see it all in those blue depths—happiness, desire, contentment, love.

He wanted to give all of that to her.

“Well, you’re going to have to hold all those thoughts,” she finally said. “Because I have to do this. I need to do this the hard way, to prove that I can. That’s it’s worth it.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Scott said.

“I have to prove it to me,” she said quietly. “I have to know that I have control over my emotions. I’ve never resisted something that I wanted and that felt good before. And I’ve never invested work and time and energy in a guy before.”

Scott almost snorted at that. He was sure that was an understatement. Peyton was gorgeous and adventurous and fun and oozed a what-the-hell attitude that was addictive. Even to a guy like Scott, who valued rules and laws. To a bad boy, Peyton would be like crack.

“So you’re going to do the relationship thing and I’m going to do the seduction thing?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to honor my wishes and lay off the sexy stuff?”

He raised a brow right back at her. “You mean the way you’ve always honored my wishes in that department?”

Did he love that she wanted to give this effort and try this relationship thing and that she wanted to show him that he was important to her? Of course. But he realized that he already knew all of that. Their relationship wasn’t typical in any way, but it fit. There was no one else like Peyton, and being with her shouldn’t be like it was with any other woman.

“Well, I guess we really are going to see who’s the more stubborn of the two of us,” she said.

“Guess so.” He stretched, making sure to flex all of his muscles. She watched every bit of it. “So, you going to help me with my shower now?”

He predicted that it would take about five minutes to get Peyton’s clothes off in the bathroom.

“You going to put swimming trunks on?” she asked.

“Uh. No.”

“Then I guess we need to call Kyle or Derek.”

“You can call, but I guarantee that Kyle and Derek are not going to help me with my shower,” Scott said firmly.

“I can call your mom,” she offered.

“She’s not coming, she knows you’re here. This is your job, Trouble.”

“Well, I’m not going in that bathroom with you unless you have trunks on.”

Scott ran a hand through his hair. Damn this woman and her crazy ideas. “I really do need a shower. I guess I’ll just have to do it myself.” He turned and started across the kitchen.

Three. Two. One.

“You’re not doing it by yourself.”

He grinned, then hid it as he turned back. “You’re not giving me a lot of choices here.”

“What if you fall over?”

“I might get hurt.”

“And if you get your wound wet?”

“I could end up with a serious infection.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m getting one of the plastic patio chairs for you to sit on.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“And I’ll have to disinfect it before you sit on it.”

“Okay.”

“And then you think you’re just going to sit in there in all your bare-assed glory?”

He shrugged. “I’ll keep a towel on if you need me to.”

“Need you to?”

“If you can’t control yourself. I know that you’ve wanted this for a long time.”

She gritted her teeth, then turned for the back patio and stomped outside. Scott headed for the bathroom. He dropped his shorts and wrapped a towel around his waist just as she returned, carrying one of his plastic patio chairs. She brushed past him as he balanced on his crutch, carrying the chair down the hall. A minute later, he heard the shower turn on and the sound of her opening and closing cupboard doors. She came back to the kitchen, bent to look under the sink, grabbed a bottle of cleaner, and went back into the bathroom.

Scott just stood there grinning.

When the chair was finally clean enough, she yelled, “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

He started down the hall, but she brushed past him on her way to the kitchen again. “I’m on my own after all?” he asked.

“Just getting the plastic wrap.”

“The what?” he asked, turning back.

“We have to wrap your dressings so they don’t get wet.” She bent and retrieved the roll from his bottom drawer.

He took in the sight of her perfect ass in those fitted leggings and again cursed this idea that she wanted to make him feel special. He had some very specific, very special suggestions for her.

But when she straightened and gave him a soft smile and said, “I do really like being here to help you,” his heart warmed and he felt some of his own stubbornness fade. This was a side of Peyton he knew was there—the soft, caring, sweet side—and that he really did want to see more of.

But he knew her. And he knew that about half of this sweet, big-eyed, I’m-all-about-you stuff was bullshit. But only half of it. And the half that was real, made him very, very happy.

“I’ll meet you in there?” he asked.

“Right behind you.”

In the bathroom, he found the chair in the tub and the showerhead was hanging from a long tube. “What’s this?”

“It’s a detachable showerhead,” she said, giving him a look.

“Well, yeah, but I don’t have a detachable showerhead.”

She rolled her eyes. “You do now.”

“You got me a new showerhead?”

“Well you can’t get fully under the spray.” She gave him a nudge. “Sit down.”

“Did you install it?” he asked, sliding onto the chair.

“I did.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Well, fortunately, they had pictures on the box,” she said dryly.

So, she’d thought of, bought and installed the showerhead. Scott wasn’t sure why he felt so stunned by that.

Maybe because he’d installed a new showerhead for her about a year ago.

“Prop your leg on the toilet.”

He did, and she quickly wrapped plastic around his dressings, seemingly completely ignoring the fact that his cock was right there. And pretty happy to see her.

Then she picked up the showerhead and pointed it at his other leg. The towel got wet quickly, molding to everything underneath, but again Peyton seemed oblivious. She soaped his leg, then rinsed it, soaped an arm, then the other, then his back.

He groaned as her hands slid over his shoulders and neck. In part because he was trying to drive her nuts, part because it really did feel amazing.

“Stop it.”

“Can’t.” He let his head fall forward.

Her hands rubbed up and down his neck again, kneading and eliciting another moan. She shampooed his hair, rinsed and then handed him the soap.

“What’s this?”

“You do the rest.”

“Why?”

She lifted her brows. “Because you can reach it all and don’t need me to do it.”

“Maybe I want you to do it.”

She reached over and turned the temp of the water down, and pointed the nozzle at his foot.

“Hey!”

“Soap up, Officer Hansen. If I do it, it will be with cold water.”

“Torturing your patients?” he asked, taking the soap. “I might write a letter to your nursing instructor.”

“Yeah, you do that.” She lifted the water stream to his calf, causing him to gasp.

He reached for the water control and turned the water up to a comfortable temp. “Okay, okay.”

He ran the soap over his chest and abs. Peyton was studying the ceiling tiles. He grinned. And opened his towel.

Ceiling tiles or not, her peripheral vision was intact.

“Scott!”

“What?”

“Cover up.”

“I gotta wash this stuff too. Unless you want to.”

She didn’t say anything to that.

He rubbed soap on his hands and continued to wash. But, of course, he was naked and Peyton was standing right there, and his body didn’t really care that it was his hand and not hers on the important parts. In fact, his important parts were familiar with his hand and thoughts of Peyton going together. His cock was hard as he washed, the soap and his hand and Peyton all making a combination that was not a bad consolation if she was going to be stubborn.

“Oh my God,” she groaned, almost to herself.

Scott met her eyes. And continued to stroke. Her lips parted and her tongue flicked out to wet them.

“That is really unfair,” she told him. “I never did that in front of you when you were trying to not sleep with me.”

“You never needed help in the shower.”

“I should have thought of getting shot.”

She was kidding, of course, but for just a second Scott’s chest seized. Jesus, he would die if something like that ever happened to her.

He shook that off. They were messing around. He squeezed his cock and watched her eyes pull away…slowly.

“Get in here, Trouble.” He would have also been a dead man if she’d ever done anything like this in front of him.

“I need to get to work.”

She dropped the showerhead, water spraying everywhere, and stomped out of the room.

“You don’t need to shower?” he called.

“I’ll shower at my place,” she yelled back.

“What if I slip getting out of here and get hurt?”

There was no response for a moment. Then he heard what sounded like her kicking the wall right outside of the bathroom. “Dammit, Scott!”

He grinned. “I’ll just…finish up in here and let you know when I’m done.”

“If you jack off in there while I’m standing right outside, I’m going to go home and use my vibrator in my shower. Think about that.”

“That’s gonna help me finish a little quicker in here, thanks.”

She might have kicked the wall again, but Scott wasn’t kidding. He was totally thinking about her and her vibrator in her shower and, thankfully, his much-needed release after sharing a house with Peyton for not quite twenty-four hours came quickly.

“Okay, ready to dry off,” he called out a few minutes later.

She stomped back in, dried him off way harder than was necessary, helped him into the bedroom, and then left him to go home and shower before heading to the bakery.

But she did call out, “I’ll be back to get you lunch!” before she slammed the door behind her.