Page 21 of Rough Daddy
Beau cocks his head, leaning toward the window, then his eyes are back on mine. "Black bear. Maybe three hundred pounds. He's checking out the bird feeder now. I’ll have a hell of a mess to clean up in the morning. Serves me right."
"Three hundred pounds?"
"Don’t worry, city girl," he says, as a new rush of heat blasts through my veins. "You're staying in my room tonight."
I blink. "What?"
"Maybe I baited him. Made sure I could keep you closer." He winks. He freakin’ winks at me as a three-hundred-pound bear leisurely dismantles everything outside. My knees are ready to give out when he gestures toward the stairs. "Come on."
I toddle behind him, as close as I can get without breaking the no-touching rule, which is getting more difficult by the second, and follow him upstairs, then through one of the two doorways on the short landing.
He flicks on a light, which turns out to be a tangle of various antlers dangling from the ceiling, with a light bulb at the center, casting fantastically whimsical shadows on the walls.
His space is nothing like I expected. Neat as a pin, warm wood walls, simple furniture that looks handmade.
A bright quilt covers the king-size bed, blue and green in a pattern I recognize from a little venture my parents took me on to an antique market so they could show my audience how ‘homespun’ I could be.
On the dresser, framed photos catch my eye. Three men who look like variations of Beau, all dark hair and serious expressions. Some include a smiling woman half the size of her brood, but with a smile twice as big. One of the men is definitely his brother from the garage.
"Brothers and mom?"
"Yeah." He opens a drawer, pulls out a white t-shirt. "You know where the bathroom is. This should be comfortable to sleep in, and it’ll keep you covered so I don’t lose my mind and violate you in your sleep."
That thought sends a wicked shiver over my skin. “Maybe I’ll leave it off then.” I crinkle my nose as he growls, pointing to the bathroom.
“Fine.” I pout, heading through to the bathroom. I strip off my halter top and skirt, pulling on his shirt. It hangs to my mid-thigh, the sleeves nearly to my elbows. In the mirror, I look like a child playing dress-up.
My new black hair is a disaster. Sex hair, wine hair, completely tangled from where I thrashed around on that counter.
I give it a quick finger comb, but decide I like the new post-orgasm look.
Coming out, I find Beau sitting on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable. When he sees me, he scratches the back of his neck, then says, "I’ll sleep on the couch."
"Don't be ridiculous." Climbing onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside him, my brain starts to come back online and I scramble for a reason for him to stay. I don’t break the actual no-touching rule, but I come precariously close. "Will you help me with my hair? It's a mess, and all my stuff's in the guest cabin."
He presses his teeth together and his eyes close for a long moment, like I've asked him to defuse a bomb.
Finally, he comes back up for air, asking, "Help you how?"
"Brush it? I always braid it to sleep, but I can't do anything with it like this."
"I don't know how to braid."
"I'll show you."
Disappearing into the bathroom, he returns with a brush, then sits behind me on the bed, careful not to touch anything but my hair.
His hands are gentle, working through the tangles with patience I didn't expect.
"You're good at this."
"I have nieces. You hit one little knot in their hair, and you’d think I threw their favorite stuffed animal onto the barbecue."
I imagine him brushing the hair of a little girl and new flutters of a different sort tickle around my heart. He smells like he looks. Like mountain air, a little wine, and Irish Spring.
Leaning into the rhythmic strokes, my eyes drift closed, tension melting from my shoulders. This is nice. Too nice. "You’re so careful. I can’t imagine you hurting someone."
The brush stills. "What do you mean?"
