Page 43 of Invasive Species
I twist my fingers together. “The guys say she'll be okay?—”
“Of course they say that. I'm coming over.”
“Really, it's fine, but sure.” I perk up. “You can see progress on the barn. Ooh, and the new marketing account I set up.”
“Progress? They've kept building?”
“Yeah. You're gonna be impressed, it's really taking shape. Gara's been helping me stay organized and?—”
“I'll see you in half an hour.”
She’s uber pissed. Laura usually quotes Shakespeare for swearwords, then moves to real ones when she’s truly annoyed or shocked. But when she stops swearing? That’s bad. “Really, Law, it's been three days since Ellen left. It's okay.”
“Why didn't you call me? I guess you may have been busy, but this is a pretty big thing to keep to yourself.”
“I called Nicole. For help with the animals. You're busy with the inquiry, I didn't want to add to your plate.” How do I explain this to her? How do I communicate she doesn’t need to drop everything, that I can handle this, with Gara to help? “I've got this, Laura.”
She hesitates. “You and Nicole have been managing the farm animals too?”
“Just me and the guys,” I say, trying—and failing—not to sound too smug.
“Well… okay. I'll bring lunch.” She hangs up.
Lunch? It can't be lunchtime, the clock on my phone says… oh, fuck, it's half eleven. Half the day is gone already and I haven't checked all the animals yet. How does Ellen do it?
Throwing on a wool sweater, I race outside trying to summon my list of chores. I round the corner to the sheep fields and collide with a wall of muscle.
“Whoa,” Gara’s deep voice bellows, twisting his torso to contain the blockwork in his arms. He drops it all to the ground and grabs my shoulders, pulling me close. “I could have crushed you. What are you running from?”
He glares over my head, looking for a threat, and my cheeks heat, not just from embarrassment. He is very, very close, and he's not a painting or a picture. No image could capture the richness of detail in his scales, scalloped along the edges and shivering into auburn, letterbox red and shards of coal black.
They thicken, hardening on his pecs but staying soft and malleable where he presses me to his stomach. His really cut and pebbled stomach, like he ate a bag of rocks all organized in double rows like an egg carton. A sexy egg carton.
Holy shit, am I drooling? I wipe my mouth quickly. “I'm not running from anything.”
“Good.” He takes a step back and I nearly reach out to keep him close. My gaze drops to the abs I’ve practically squeezed myself against, down to the waistband of his pants. Are they… tighter than usual? They’re snug on his hips and barely existent, outlining each tree-trunk thigh muscle like he's sprayed them on.
My wool sweater is suddenly way too hot, and I tug at the neck with a gulp.
I swing my eyes up to meet his. “Sorry. I’m… distracted.”
He smirks, but lines pull in the corner of his eyes, dark shadows lurking there.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You seem tired.”
His brows twitch together. “I'm fine.”
“Are you getting enough sleep? I'm not running you ragged, am I?”
One side of his lips swoops up in a smile before he suppresses it. “Not more than usual. I'm… studying your… culture.”
The scales on his chest and shoulders pale, going as pink as wind-chapped cheeks.
Studying? “Oh, yeah, the e-reader. I stay up all night reading sometimes too.”
He flexes his hips slightly as he moves closer, watching my face. I have little impulse control on the best days, but I somehow manage to keep my eyes on his.
He lowers his voice to ask, “Can I assist you?”
