Worth The Wait

Smart thinking, given her present limited supply of energy.

She’d already scrubbed head to toe, getting that out of the way before she tired. Now she just enjoyed breathing in the dampness in the air and feeling the warmth of the water sink into her bones.

“You okay in there?”

“Go away.” She smiled, then glanced over to the closed toilet lid. Hogan had put a fresh T-shirt and another pair of panties there.

The man was making himself at home all right.

But the bath felt so good she didn’t care.

He’d also put a thick towel on the side of the tub and her fluffy housecoat on the door hook.

Why did getting clean make her feel more human?

“If you stay in there much longer,” came his deep, seductive voice, “am I going to have to carry you out?”

“You wish,” she muttered low enough that he couldn’t hear.

But he replied, his tone laced with amusement, “As a matter of fact, it’s a current fantasy. You all warm, naked and—” he paused for effect “—wet.”

Violet caught her breath, promptly coughed and grouchily wheezed, “I’ll be out in five more minutes.”

“Okay, calm down.” She could almost picture his negligent pose against the door. “Hungry?”

Violet bit her lip. She was hungry. It was hours earlier that she’d eaten the soup Colt had brought her. But Hogan had already done so much—

“I’ll take that heavy pause as a yes.”

“Hogan, no, wait.”

No answer. She heard him walking away.

Blasted perfectly flawed man. She closed her eyes, felt herself fading and decided she had to get out. His fantasy, nice as it would be, could not become her reality.

She liked him. She loved his barbecued ribs. And she enjoyed him as an employee and a friend.

Intimacy would only screw up the dynamics.

She dragged out of the bathroom, mostly dry and bundled in her clothes and housecoat, to the scent of pancakes.

How does he know all my weaknesses?

She followed her nose into the kitchen just as he dropped a pat of butter onto a stack of three fluffy pancakes.

He glanced at her, looked back to his skillet, then returned for a longer look. “It would help,” he said low, “if you looked worse.”

She almost laughed. “Ratty hair, bloodshot eyes and chapped lips appeal to you?”

“On you, yeah.” He gave his attention back to the prep of the food. “I started to ask you what you’d like, but figured you’d just give me another smart-ass answer, so I decided on pancakes.”

She pulled out a chair and slumped into it. “My comfort food. Thank you.”

Smiling now, he set the first plate of pancakes and the bottle of syrup in front of her. “Juice, milk?”

“Juice, thank you.”

Hogan gave her a piercing look. “Keep thanking me and I’ll assume you’re delirious. You might find yourself back at the hospital.”

She grinned, filled her mouth with a big bite of syrup-drenched, fluffy pancake and moaned. “So good.”

Hogan said nothing.

She looked up and found him staring at her intently. When she raised a brow, he shook his head and joined her at the table with his own plate of pancakes.

In short order, without her having to ask, he told her about the day and how busy they’d been and how smoothly everything had run.

Without her.

Feeling glum, she asked, “What about your bike?”

“Jason got it home for me.” He eyed her. “I’m taking your car again tomorrow.”

The independent woman in her rebelled. “You just assume I’ll miss work again?”

Reaching out, he fingered one long, damp curl at her temple. “Ratty-haired women with bloodshot eyes and chapped lips should give themselves time to recoup.”

Instead of debating that, Violet asked, hopefully with enough indifference, “Are you staying over again?”

Sounding supremely confident, he said, “Yes.”

It was crazy. Beyond crazy. Bordering on dangerous. But Violet was thrilled. “Okay.” Hoping to coast past that, in case she’d given herself away and shown how much she wanted him to stay, she poked his shoulder. “Now tell me about Nathan and this other woman.”

He did, in exaggerated detail.

Once he’d finished, she said, “That doesn’t sound like Nathan.” Love struck? Nathan was so alpha, so very take-charge. Sure, he performed with Drunken Monkeys, but even then he remained, in every way, the sheriff—just a more lighthearted version. “He got that macho scar while part of a SWAT team, you know.”

Hogan’s brow quirked at her “macho” comment, but it was true. Explaining to him, she said, “Nathan is as much a man as a man could be.”

Now he frowned.

“It’s a little overbearing,” she added and watched his frown fade.

As if pledging the truth, Hogan lifted a hand. “Macho or not, his tongue was on the ground, I swear. And his eyes were glazed. He’s after her all right. But she didn’t even crack a smile for him.”

“Or for you?”

Hogan grinned. “I finagled a very perfunctory handshake from her, and a clear dismissal.”