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Bryce shakes his head. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Not around me.”
I gesture to the plate on the counter. “Thank you for these. They’re the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten.”
He lifts a blocky shoulder, like the thoughtful gesture was no big deal.
“Why did you do it?” The words rush out of me like a sinful query.
“To make you smile.”
Goosebumps spread like wildfire along my skin. His lips hover over me, outlined by his beard, which serves as a spotlight. They’re plump and smooth, and I’m hit with a sudden punch of lust as I imagine sucking his lower lip into my mouth, and biting down on it. What kind of lover is he? Is he as rough as his exterior, or does he take meticulous care of a woman’s body the same way he works in the kitchen?
“Charly.” He says my name like a warning, watching me through an intense gaze under lowered lids.
Shit. Pull yourself together before you start humping the man’s leg like a dog.
“Right. I should probably go get dressed.” I hop off the stool, and clear my throat. “Thank you again for the pancakes.”
I scurry into the hallway, and press my back against my door when I’m safe in my room, willing my racing pulse to slow down.
It’s been so long since I’ve been intimate with a man. Watching my mother’s health decline often left me depressed, and not in the mood. It’s another reason why I don’t fault Greg for cheating. People crave human touch—it’s a normal, healthy thing. I lost my sex drive, and Greg stopped trying. But when I’m around Bryce, my body reacts to him as if he flips a switch and turns on every one of my nerve endings. I’m hyperaware of him, and my mind drifts to thoughts of what it’d be like to feel him, to kiss him, to be close to him. When we’re together, I’m left wanting. Craving.
And I still haven’t figured out whether that’s a good thing.
After we serve and clean up breakfast at the inn, there’s a commotion out in the front yard.
Bryce, Beatrice, and I fly out the front door, where three of the guests run in opposite directions, chasing after a dog who darts around the property.
“What the hell?” Bryce moves down the ramp. “Whose dog is that?”
“I don’t know,” a man says. “He won’t let us get close enough to check his collar.”
The collar he speaks of is made up of metal prongs digging into his neck. The dog is a reddish-tan color with short fur, tall and muscular, with a big round jaw and a long snout. He looks like a miniature-sized horse. But the closer I look, I notice bald spots in his coat, and I can count every one of his ribs.
This pit bull hasn’t been taken care of.
I follow Bryce into the yard, and kneel down on the grass.
The dog stops running, and sets his striking amber eyes on me. His clipped ears stand straight up.
Beatrice gasps. “Charly, what are you doing?”
“He might be dangerous,” says the other man.
Bryce inches toward me, his eyes on the dog.
“He doesn’t look dangerous.” I hold out my hand. “Hi, boy. Are you looking for a friend?”
His tail whips back and forth so hard it causes his entire body to wiggle.
I sit down on the soft grass. “You’re like a wiggly little worm. Come here.”
Like he’s been shot out of a cannon, he bolts across the lawn. His tongue hangs out the side of his mouth as he gallops toward me.
“Char,” Bryce warns.
“It’s okay.” I glance up at him. “Trust me.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth, and gives me a quick nod.
