Skyler Hawk: Lone Brave. Sheri WhiteFeather
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Should I stand up, maybe?”
Windy took a deep breath, his big, bronzed chest suddenly making her ill at ease. “Sure.”
He stood, turned his back, then jolted forward. “Damn.” He winced, clutching his midsection.
There were a few cuts low on his back, just as he’d said, but she decided they weren’t the problem. The bruises on his stomach had to hurt. She couldn’t imagine being kicked there.
She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I just got stiff sitting for so long, I guess.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Offering comfort, she allowed her hands to express her concern. For an instant she kneaded his shoulders, then made consoling strokes through his hair.
Seeping through the protective shell of Sky’s rough-and-tumble ego was a thin veil of vulnerability. It circled around Windy like the sweetened smoke of incense, begging for more of her compassion, her touch.
He needed her.
And she needed him. Needed to explore the breadth of his shoulders, the silky hair falling down his back. Windy combed through the thickness, capturing the midnight strands in between her fingers.
She felt him shudder, saw the muscles ripple down his back, listened to his pleasured sigh. Although she touched him tentatively, Sky responded as though he wanted to fall into her arms. Hold her close. Kiss her.
But when he turned abruptly to face her, a thick silence fell between them.
For several uncomfortable moments they stared at each other, aware of the heat passing between them. They stood paralyzed, suspended in time, her fingers frozen in his hair, his eyes as silent as a vast summer sky. She inhaled his scent: blood, sweat and traces of peppermint candy. The unusual combination sent a tingle down her spine.
Windy moved her throat just enough to swallow. She had no business encouraging him, not in a romantic way. He might want more than she was willing to give. Drop your hand. Step back.
Oh, my God. Mortified, she glanced away. Somehow her ring had become caught in his hair, twisted in the heavy black mass.
Whispering an apology, she tugged gently in an effort to release her hand, trying for a noncommittal focus. In spite of herself, her gaze met his, spicing her blood until it seared through her veins. Immediately her knees weakened. If her legs buckled, she would either pull Sky to the ground with her or tear out a handful of his hair before collapsing.
Still struggling to gain control, Windy gauged Sky’s reaction. He was going to say something. Do something. Make a joke. Pretend this was amusing. With that warped sense of humor, he probably thought this was amusing.
On cue, his slightly damaged lips curved into a big, lopsided smile.
Windy’s breath expanded. “I suppose we do look rather silly,” she said, her legs regaining their consistency. “But if you laugh—”
Her warning came too late; he was already laughing.
“Sky, this is not funny. My ring is stuck in your hair. And you’re splitting your lip again.”
He made a face at her. A hideous face, which she thought effective with the addition of his black eye. Giggling seemed her only option. She had never met anyone quite like him. “You’re a strange man.” She felt him pulling at her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Getting your hand out of my hair.”
She stepped back and wiggled her finger, displaying Sky’s handiwork. Attached to the ruby ring were several long strands of black hair. They exchanged a quick burst of laughter.
He lifted an eyebrow. “So I’m strange, huh?”
Strange. Gorgeous. Mysterious. She could hardly wait to talk to Edith about him. Windy glanced at the microwave clock. In two hours she would be sipping tea at Edith’s house. “You make some weird faces.”
He shrugged and spied the coffeepot. “Is that fresh?”
“I made it about an hour ago.”
“Good enough.” He strolled over to the counter, poured a cup, then added an enormous amount of sugar.
She watched in fascination. Odd. He struck her as the kind of bar-brawling cowboy who would prefer his coffee strong and bitter.
He tasted the dark brew, winced and reached for the sugar bowl once again. She tidied the mess on the table and tried not to laugh. “Why don’t you have a little coffee with your sugar, Sky?”
He flashed his signature smile. “I have a sweet tooth.”
Her heart warmed and fluttered. How could a man be virile and boyish at the same time? Rough yet gentle? Strong yet vulnerable?
Windy sat at the table and pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. Her lack of experience was showing. She understood children, not men. At twenty-six, she’d been dating less than ten years, but never serious dates, or long-term boyfriends. Although plenty of men found her attractive, she’d never lost her heart, made earth-shattering love or even cuddled in masculine arms all night. Call her old-fashioned, but she didn’t mind waiting for the real thing.
What would it be like to sleep next to Sky? she wondered. To curl up beside that long, copper body? Feel those rippling muscles? Old-fashioned or not, a girl had the right to dream, didn’t she?
Sky clanked a spoon against his cup. Windy looked up with a start to find him watching her, a knowing look in his eye. Uncomfortable, she fussed with her hair again—hair that curled haphazardly no matter what the style or length. She pushed an annoying ringlet away, but it sprang back, slapping her cheek. This time an exasperated huff blew it behind her shoulder. A moment later it returned.
Sky’s dimples surfaced. “You have bedroom hair.”
“Excuse me?”
He came forward, coffee cup in hand. “Your hair looks as if you just tumbled out of bed.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Nothing’s sexier than a thoroughly loved woman with tangled hair.”
Windy tried not to blush. For Pete’s sake. What a thing for him to say, especially after she’d been fantasizing about sleeping in his arms. “My hair always looks like this.” And she’d never been thoroughly loved.
He leaned on the table, his husky voice low and intimate. “Say, Pretty Windy with the bedroom hair, are you hungry?”
Her pulse raced. “Hungry?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. For food. You know, breakfast.”
Windy regained her composure. Her flirtatious new roommate had a dastardly sense of humor. Hungry indeed. He knew darn well the way he’d made it sound. “I would imagine you’re ready to eat.”
“Hell, yes. I got the tar beat out of me last night, slept in my truck, then brushed my teeth in a service station rest room. I’m downright starving.”
She couldn’t imagine living such an irresponsible life-style. “I can fix you something. I always keep a well-stocked fridge.”
He smiled. “Sure, okay. It would save me the trouble of going back out again.”
Windy’s mood brightened. There were advantages to having a male roommate. Security, safety. Someone to haul the trash cans out to the curb, someone to fix the plumbing, someone to cook for. She wasn’t used to having a man around. Sky would be the first man with whom she had shared a home. Her father had died when she was still small, and her mother never remarried.
“What would you like to eat?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Anything. A bowl of oatmeal, frozen waffles. Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“It’s no trouble. I like to cook. I even enjoy going to the market.”
He