Page 28 of Knocked Up in Alaska

“Oh. Um. Okay,” came from inside the room.

Keeping his face averted, he cracked the door just wide enough to put the clothes onto the counter and quickly retreated, closing the door firmly behind him. His heart beat as if he’d just finished a five-mile uphill trail run hacking a fifty-pound pack. His cock surged and declared a painful war against the buttons along his fly, leaving him all the more lightheaded.

Breathe, Langley. Slow, deep breaths. Breathe and move.She cannot find you unconscious by the bathroom door with your dick pointing up like a sundial.

Questioning his mental stability, he backtracked to the entryway and looked at her bags. He could open them, take out the wet clothes, and toss them in his dryer, but… Would she want him rifling through her things, even with noble intentions? Would any woman? He sighed and scrubbed his palm over the back of his neck where heat rose.

Probably not.

Okay, they’d tackle the laundry after her shower. That brought him to the warm meal portion of his to-do list, so he strode to the kitchen. After cursing his still meagerly stocked pantry, he decided on soup. He opened the can of chicken noodle, dumped it in a saucepan, brought it to a boil, and then reduced it to a simmer. The rain had mellowed from a loud, relentless deluge to a steady, muted patter. That, combined with the mundane chore, helped settle his system and reaffirm in his own mind his role in her life as a trustworthy friend.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

When she walked silently into the kitchen a few moments later, he felt certain that’s what she saw—a friend. What she absolutely, positively would not see was a sweaty-palmed pervert who couldn’t get the image of her half-naked body out of his head.

Then her eyes slowly roamed over his chest and he wished he’d put on a shirt. Jesus, he was losing it. Turning away, he opened a cabinet and took out a bowl. Dedicating more attention than the task warranted, he poured the soup from the saucepan to the bowl, selected a spoon from the utensil drawer and, as he was fresh out of napkins, tore a paper towel from the roll on the counter. When he turned back, she’d seated herself on one of the stools at the island.

Her long hair seemed darker, all sleek and wet. Her eyes looked huge in her freshly scrubbed face. The soft pink of her full lips called to mind the similar shade of pink he’d seen beneath the sheer fabric of her wet bra…

He jerked his gaze away from the front of her shirt. Even oversize, unisex black cotton couldn’t hide her lush shape. And maybe he looked as sketchy as he felt, because her eyebrows slanted down. She folded her hands in her lap and bit her lip.

Heart sinking, unsure of what to say to erase her anxiety, he just stood in the middle of his kitchen like a dumb fuck, holding a bowl of soup and staring at her.

“Ford, I’m so sorry to show up like this, wake you in the middle of the night and…” Her words tapered off as he continued to stand there. “Please sit.” She patted the stool beside her. “This can wait until you’ve finished your soup.”

That got him moving. “Your soup,” he corrected and placed the bowl in front of her. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

“Oh.” She blinked at it, then him, as he settled himself on the other stool. “That’s very kind of you. You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.”

Food wasn’t at the top of her mind, nor would she have willingly imposed on him even if it was. He could see that. But he knew her manners wouldn’t allow her to turn it down. Especially not if he exerted a little mild coercion. He picked up the spoon and handed it to her. “So much trouble. Opening the can, the endless stirring. Slaving over a hot stove.”

She took the spoon and gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

He found a smile of his own for her. “You’re welcome. Eat.”

She dipped her head to obey. He waited until she’d downed a few spoonfuls before speaking. “Something happened tonight at The Castaway?” Something traumatic enough to send her to him in the middle of the night through a driving rain. The possibilities made his jaw tighten and his hands fist, but he resisted the fire of violence in his blood. At least until he knew whose ass to kick.

She placed her spoon by her bowl and dabbed her mouth with the paper towel. “I think what it comes down to is I’m cursed.”

The hint of a smile curving her lips as she delivered that assessment eased some of his tension. “How so?”

“Don at The Castaway offered me that bungalow at a discount because it needed some exterior repairs. He couldn’t let it out to real customers with a big blue tarp over the roof, but I wasn’t worried about how pretty it looked. I just needed a safe, affordable place. Unfortunately, the tarp didn’t stand up to the storm. Sometime during the night, rain started blowing under and pooling on the ceiling drywall. A little after two this morning, the ceiling gave out. A flood of rainwater and drywall came crashing down, soaking my little room and everything in it.”

“Including you.” Jesus, no wonder she felt cursed.

“Including me,” she agreed with a wince.

“Are you hurt?” He restrained himself from running his hands over her to check for injuries. Her eyes focused fine. She was oriented and articulate, sitting up and taking nourishment. If she had concerns, she would have raised them already. Lilah wouldn’t take any chances with the baby.

“No,” she replied after swallowing another spoonful of soup. “Just homeless.” Owl eyes focused on him. “Again.”

“My guest room is yours for as long as you need it.”

“I’m going to find something, I promise,” she said, setting her spoon down and speaking quickly. “I hate to impose. I just need a place to…uh…haha…crash tonight.”

“For as long as you need,” he repeated. “A week, a month. Whatever.” Stay forever. I’ll sit here quietly tortured in ways you don’t understand, going slowly out of my mind trying to keep myself in check. He considered it a testament to exactly how sick a fuck he was that the prospect sounded fine to him.

“Just tonight,” she insisted. “Don promised he’s going to fast-track the repairs on the bungalow and still let me have it for the same rate. I’ll sofa-surf for a week or two until it’s ready.”

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