Page 51 of Kilt Trip

A too-small towel. A creamy expanse of skin.

He reached out to steady her before they both ended up horizontal. Her hair was a wild tangle of gold and butterscotch twisting over her shoulders. She seemed delicate and vulnerable like this, enhanced by the freckles dusting her nose.

Heat radiated from her palm spread in the middle of his chest, washing over him as if he stood in front of a fire.

A water droplet rolled down the hollow of Addie’s collarbones and between her breasts.

His eyes snapped back to hers—mossy green and searching—and her lips parted slowly, her breath coming out in a rush.

She leaned into his hands, the pressure subtle but unmistakable. Kissing her might not be a battle like everything else with them. She might melt into him, soft and sweet.

As if sensing his thoughts, she gripped her towel harder.

Logan snatched his hands back from her arms, suddenly aware of how long they’d been standing there and how deranged a path his mind had wandered down.

They both moved at once, trying to make up for the misstep, and bumped into each other again. Logan flattened his back against the wall, jarred by his body’s reaction to her. His mind stalled out with thoughts of how much he wanted her. Not only dripping wet and unbearably sexy but challenging and comforting and his.

“What are you doing?” Her voice came out breathy.

The white terry cloth did little to distract him from the fact she was naked. And not a divert-your-eyes kind of naked, either.

“Er, I...” Logan fumbled around like a lad speaking to a lass for the first time as she pulled the knot of her towel higher on her chest. Don’t look at her legs.

He snapped his eyes back to hers. “I want to show you something in the morning.”

“Okay.” She gestured in the direction of her room. Minimally, as to not upset the towel.

The washrag of a towel.

“I’m gonna...”

Logan swallowed. Nodded.

Her hips swayed as she moved down the hall, an extra half centimeter of bare leg revealed with each step.

He prayed for a hale wind.

Addie turned at the door, catching his look. The one he was sure wasn’t hard to interpret.

And then he stood staring at a closed door, sucking in oxygen, feet growing roots in the floor, on the off chance she came back.

Christ.

He was never going to sleep tonight.

17

Someone tugged on the blanket covering Addie, startling her from sleep. “I knew you wanted under my kilt.”

She blinked up at Logan’s blurry form.

“It’s the Sutherland tartan,” he explained, and she looked down at the forest green, navy blue, and red plaid blanket draped over her on the lumpy lobby couch.

Her brain was fuzzy with sleep and the aftereffects of hiding out from ghosts. Fragments of unexplainable drafts, creaking floors, and tapping on her window flickered in her mind, and she repressed a shudder.

Around three in the morning, she’d swallowed her pride and curled up on the couch in front of the hearth as if she actually believed in ghosts or the old Scottish superstitions Craig had shared the night before about warding off evil spirits with fire.

“What are you doing down here?”

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