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When she walked out into the living room, she spotted Wolfe standing at the window, arms folded, staring out.
He was fully dressed and his clean, sandy hair was slicked back off his forehead.
“When did you get a shower? I didn’t hear—”
He turned from the window, the sight of what he held in his arms cutting her off.
Angel. Her cat.
What. A. Traitor.
Her pet hated strangers. She hid for hours and hours when Livia brought men home. She even hid from Livia’s sister.
Now she wasn’t only curled up in the crook of Wolfe’s arm but lying on her back like a baby.
Livia shook her head. “How is she letting you hold her that way?” She narrowed her gaze on him. “What did you do to my cat?”
He bent forward and let the cat slip out of his arms. Angel immediately began to weave in and out of his legs, claiming him as her own.
“I didn’t do anything to her. She’s all over me. I woke up with her on top of me again.”
She glanced at Angel still swishing her tail like a kitty hussy for the big, hot SEAL, and then back up to Wolfe’s face.
“Livia, about me leaving the bed this morning—”
She threw up a hand to stop him. “You don’t need to say anything. I prefer waking up alone.”
His shoulders relaxed.
Did he have to look so relieved? Now he was bordering on rude.
He raked his long, tanned fingers through his hair. “I want to sleep by the door. In case.”
She darted a look at the door and saw that he hadn’t placed the jug of daisies there as an alarm system again. Probably a good thing since Angel did enjoy knocking things over.
“Are you wearing that to work at the bar?” His gaze roamed from her loose hair, down to the tiny white tee she wore. He flicked his gaze back up, eyes burning with desire.
She nodded. “That’s the plan. Why?”
“Your top’s a little…small. Isn’t it?”
She waved a hand. “It shrank in the dryer. I admit to buying a batch of cheap T-shirts last year. Besides, wearing it earns me a lot of tips, and even though I’m the owner, it’s still nice to come home with a pocketful of cash.”
As she jabbered, she walked past him to the entryway to locate her boots. But she didn’t get far before he grabbed her by the arm.
He went dead still as he stared down at her. “I don’t like the idea of men giving you tips because of how you look in a top.”
Twisting her head, she met his stare with a defiant tilt of her chin. “You don’t get a say in that.”
She meant for her response to come out with the strength she usually used…but the words were raspy.
Breathy.
“You’re right—I don’t.” He released her, masking his expression with a neutral one that got under her skin.
She withdrew her arm from the clasp of his warm, callused fingers. “Let’s just get to the bar. I need to clean up before the lunch rush.”
He grunted and opened the door, annoying her more by checking that the coast was clear before allowing her to walk to the car—with him half a step behind, of course.
