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I risk waking her up by moving her foot out and spreading her legs. She stirs but doesn't open her eyes.
Wish I'd taken her from behind more often when I had the chance, but I liked to watch her face when she came. So sexy. Damn. You love someone forward and backward and still lose her. It's not fair, but life ain't fair. Learned that a long time ago.
What the hell happened last night, and what the hell is she doing here?
I remember thinking someone was there.
I pulled out my shotgun.
She was standing by the cabin like a vision.
Felt like I'd lost my damn mind.
It's a little blurry after that. There was some water involved and now here she is sleeping in my bed. I hope I didn't fuck her and forget it. That would suck. I'd want to remember that.
I change out of my damp shorts and pull on a shirt and jeans. My eyes look bloodshot, my beard is out of control, and my hair is shit.
What did I say to her? What am I going to say to her?
Luckily she sleeps through my breakfast and gives me some time to take ibuprofen and wake the hell up.
After a good long hour of watching her gorgeous ass sleep, she wakes up. She pulls her hair from her face and looks around. Our gazes lock and it's like before. She captivates me and I'm hooked.
She groans and flops her head down, her mass of brown hair covering her face again.
"You need to get the hell out of here." My voice is rough like I'm chewing on tree bark.
Her brow scrunches and she props her torso up on one arm. "Excuse me?"
"Get your ass back to New York." I have to clear my throat to get the words out.
"No," she says like the spoiled rich brat she pretends to be. She puts on a convincing show, but the real Mila is sweet,kind, and down-to-earth. I've seen through her rich-girl act since day one.
"No?"
"No," she says again. Oh, I like this side of her. She's the one who showed up atmyplace and forced herself in. She's an unwelcome house guest and she's saying no to me?
"My place. My rules. You leave."
When her gaze meets mine again, it's hard to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up. The place is trashed. I look like a baseball player at the end of the World Series. The Foster she knew kept a clean apartment and a shaved chin.
"Actually, it's my place." She seems oblivious that she's talking nonsense.
Have we had this absurd discussion before?
"What the hell are you talking about?" I keep my voice angry because she seriously needs to leave before I grab her cute little waist and bang her on this kitchen table. Damn. I can't even entertain thoughts like that but the desire is strong. She's breathtaking even though she just woke up and she's saying stupid stuff.
"I own the deed. Henry left it to me."
Her mention of Henry jabs my heart. I miss the man. And what does she think she's saying?
"He did not. He left it to me. I got the papers."
She climbs out of the bed and wanders over to a set of pink luggage by the door. Her initials are embossed on it in large black cursive letters.
She withdraws an envelope from an outer pocket and waves it in the air. "So did I," she says like a lawyer presenting the clinching bit of evidence.
"Henry," I can barely get his name out without choking up, "wrote you into his will?"
