Sleeping With Beauty. Laura Wright
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He exhaled. “Tomorrow, we’ll head into town. See the doctor.”
“All right,” she agreed, taking a dainty bite of pasta.
And the doctor could take her off his hands for good. Then things would get back to normal. Fishing and cussing and forgetting about the past. He could go back to eating in peace and not thinking about beautiful violet-eyed women and where his soap had been.
At that moment, the beautiful violet-eyed woman in question stood up and began collecting plates and bowls. “You know, you’re a very good cook, Dan. Was there fresh thyme in the tomato sauce?”
The woman had to be a diplomat or something. He shrugged. “You’d have to ask Chef Boyardee.”
“You have a chef?”
Dan paused, rewound. Then a chuckle—an honest to goodness chuckle—escaped his dusty lungs. Leaning back against the sink, he shook his head. “Man, you really have lost your memory. The pasta’s from a can.”
“And so is the chef?”
He nodded.
Her face broke out into a wide grin.
His, too.
He reached for her plates and placed them in the sink, this time with only a mild clatter. She disarmed him with that smile and easy way of hers. Extraordinary.
Yet worrisome. If she could make him smile a dozen times—and laugh—all in one day, she was a bigger batch of trouble than he’d even imagined.
“You should probably head in to bed,” he suggested. “I have an injured horse who needs tending.”
She nodded. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, thanks again for dinner.”
“No problem.”
“And I really hope my memory returns in the morning.”
“So do I.” Truer words were never spoken. “Make sure to keep the door open a crack.”
“Okay. Good night.” After one of those irresistible smiles, she turned and left the room.
“Good night, Angel.”
Dan grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the couch, his bed for the night. In the fireplace, the flames crackled and sputtered, fighting to stay alive. He knew their fierceness, their hunger.
For four years, he’d been crawling around on his belly, unwilling to stand up. He’d never thought he’d have the pluck.
From the bedroom, he heard the woman pull back the comforter, heard the bed dip with the weight of her body.
Around her, he had the pluck. Around her, he had the urge to stand.
He drained his beer, then headed for the front door.
Around her, he had a new hunger, dangerous and demanding.
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