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“Yes?” He faced her, his eyes searching hers.
“Thank you.” She met his gaze, hoping her face did not betray the true depth of her emotions.
The shock from their hasty escape and the terror of the fight in the darkness still flowed through her veins, but there was something more—a connection she’d never experienced with anyone before. As if an invisible force drew her to him, an intense desire that threatened to consume her.
A sensible woman would walk away. Getting involved with him could only lead to more complications. Yet, standing there in his presence, she couldn’t deny the rightness of it all. She longed to be with him, to explore the unspoken promise that hung in the air between them.
He paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob. “For you? Anything.”
23
Grace slumped on the bed.
She was too tired to even cry. Mechanically, she reached for the folded pajamas, the fabric silky against her fingertips. Clutching them to her chest, she pushed to her feet, padding into the adjoining bathroom on leaden legs.
The bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the house—all sleek lines and elegant fixtures. Twin vanities flanked a large mirror, the inset basins pristine. Heat radiated up from the tiled floor against her cold feet. On the far side, a glass-enclosed shower beckoned, the promise of steaming water and fragrant soap almost unbearably tempting.
But her weariness was bone deep. Showering could wait until she’d managed a few hours of oblivion. She undressed, piling her borrowed clothes on the floor and pulling on the short-sleeved blue pajamas. The cotton was luxuriously smooth. Even that small comfort almost undid her. The simple act of kindness from a man who owed her nothing.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, Caleb had returned, carrying a tray with two mugs of steaming tea as well as a slender carafe of water. He set the tray on the nightstand as she slid beneath the covers, then he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
He knuckled one finger under her chin. “You okay?”
A shiver raced down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill that had taken up permanent residence in her bones.
He checked her hands. “God, Grace, you’re freezing.” A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I think it’s just stress.” She tried to summon a reassuring smile. He had already done so much for her. She didn’t want to worry him any more than was necessary. “I can’t seem to get warm.”
Everything had happened so fast. The soul-searing kiss they’d shared, the desperate flight from the cabin, the adrenalin-fueled nightmare of escape... it all swirled together in a kaleidoscope of sensations that left her feeling raw and exposed.
“Here. Drink some of this.” He handed her a mug of tea. Grace inhaled the delicate scent of bergamot as she took a tentative sip. “Earl Gray. One of my favorites.” The rich, smoky flavor was an unexpected comfort.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Guess I got lucky.”
“Yes…”
He cleared his throat. “Well… I’ll just crash on the couch.” Caleb gestured toward the dove-gray sofa tucked against the far wall.
It looked so far away.
Grace set her tea aside. “Please. I don’t want to be alone. Sleep here…in the bed with me.”
She braced herself for rejection, sure that he would tell her that the kiss, the connection she sensed between them, was a mistake. A moment of weakness brought on by the heightened emotion of the situation.
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Here? In the bed?”
“Yes.” The word escaped on a shaky exhale. Every nerve in her body was attuned to this gorgeous man who had been her unwavering protector from the moment their paths collided. She was so used to Richard telling her what she wanted, the act of making this choice for herself felt monumental.
I choose you, Caleb.
He held her gaze a beat longer before nodding once. “Alright.”
Her breath hitched in her throat as he stood up and tugged his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of him bared to the waist in the golden lamplight. Corded muscle flexed beneath taut skin, his broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist and flat, ridged stomach. A light dusting of hair covered his chest, narrowing into a tantalizing trail that disappeared into the waistband of his dark cargos.
Holy mother of God. It was all she could do to remember to breathe.
Sculpted. That was the only word for him. As if a sculptor had chiseled him from granite, every plane and angle honed to perfection. Her pulse thundered in her veins as a curl of raw desire stretched luxuriously in her belly.
