Page 90 of Saddle and Scent
I slide out of the impossibly comfortable bed, immediately noticing that I'm wearing different clothes than I remember putting on. Instead of Aunt Lil's oversized cardigan and my worn cotton pajamas, I'm dressed in what might be the softest, most luxurious sleepwear I've ever touched.
The fabric feels like it was spun from clouds and cost more than my truck.
The fit is perfect—not too tight, not too loose, like someone took careful measurements while I was unconscious.
Which is either incredibly thoughtful or mildly concerning, depending on how you look at it.
I need to use the bathroom, and I'm genuinely surprised to discover that there's an en-suite attached to this mystery room. A clean, modern bathroom with fluffy towels and toiletries that smell like heaven and a mirror that doesn't have water stains or cracks.
How many bathrooms does this house actually have?
And how much renovation happened while I was unconscious?
After taking care of business and splashing cool water on my face—partly to wake up fully and partly to confirm that this is all really happening—I venture out into the hallway. The sun is streaming through windows that have definitely been cleaned recently, and based on its position in the sky, it's much later than I initially thought.
"Jesus, did I sleep for a year?"
A familiar chuckle echoes from the direction of the stairs, and I look down to see Wes ascending toward me. The sight stops me in my tracks, because apparently the universe has decided that today is going to be a test of my self-control.
He's shirtless.
Gloriously, distractingly, absolutely sinfully shirtless.
And looking far too good for anyone's mental health.
"It's three in the afternoon," he announces with a grin that suggests he's fully aware of the effect his state of undress is having on me. "I was actually about to come up and check on you to see if you were still breathing at this point, because Junebug rarely sleeps in."
Three in the afternoon?
I slept for nearly sixteen hours?
"Three?!" I gasp, genuinely shocked. "In the afternoon?!"
I can't remember the last time I slept past seven AM, let alone into the middle of the day. My internal clock is usually more reliable than an atomic timepiece, waking me at dawn regardless of when I went to bed or how tired I was.
Apparently my body decided it was time to catch up on about a decade's worth of insufficient rest.
My stomach chooses that exact moment to voice its opinion on the situation, letting out a growl so loud it probably scared birds in the next county. The sound makes Wes's grin widen into something that's almost predatory in its amusement.
"C'mon, Junebug," he says, starting to climb the rest of the stairs toward me. "Let's get you fed."
Which would be a perfectly reasonable suggestion if I weren't currently distracted by the way his muscles move under his skin as he climbs.
When did they all get so... fit?
I remember teasing them mercilessly when we were kids for being scrawny, all elbows and knees and gangly adolescent awkwardness. Callum had been tall but thin, Wes had been more interested in books than physical activity, and Beckett had been soft around the edges in the way of someone who spent more time baking than working out.
That is definitely not the case anymore.
Wes looks like he could model for fitness magazines in his spare time.
All defined abs and lean muscle and the kind of casual strength that comes from actual physical work rather than gym posturing.
I'm so busy staring that I don't notice he's reached the top of the stairs until he's standing directly in front of me. The realization that I've been caught blatantly checking him out hits like ice water, and I can feel heat flooding my cheeks.
"Like what you're seeing?" he asks, voice dropping to that particular register that makes my insides turn to liquid.
The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
