“And that’s the only thing you could think to do at—what is it, five in the morning?” she said.
“I was afraid working on your showerhead or your car would wake you up.” He rubbed his hands on his jeans again, really wishing he could get more of that dirt off. “And I didn’t want to get too far away.”
Her sleepy smile made him feel as if she was stroking him everywhere—long, generous strokes. He looked down at the pump again, scared to take a deep breath in case it accidentally overfilled his body and all those emotions pressing up in him exploded. “And nothing other than fixing something occurred to you, at this hour of the morning?”
He shoved a dirty hand through his hair, confused about what she wanted from him. “It’s my valley,” he tried to explain.
Her smile broke into something radiant.
He stared at it. “And…I don’t really fit in your bed. I was making you uncomfortable.” He’d been afraid to fall asleep, in case he rolled over and knocked her out of bed. Or snored. Or sweated, with her hot body smashed up against his like that. Or did, really, anything a big male body in a tiny bed could come up with to do to make the woman in it crinkle her nose and wish he was elsewhere.
She rubbed her shoulder, still smiling. “I do have a crick in my neck.”
His gaze zeroed in on her rubbing. His palms itched. He could rub there better than she could. He rose, then remembered how dirty his hands were.
“I bet your bed is a lot bigger.”
It was, yes. And it was his bed. She’d fit perfectly in it.
She blinked heavy, smiling eyes up at him. “I don’t suppose that offer’s still open?”
He couldn’t remember what she was talking about, so he played it safe. “All my offers to you are still open.” To take care of her, to make sure she didn’t get lost, to fix her shower…oh, shit, as long as she didn’t mean that offer to buy this house back. Could they not talk about kicking her out of this valley this morning?
“To carry me,” she whispered, lifting her arms to him. “Through the roses to your house. I’d like that so much.”
Of all his offers, it seemed by far the least practical. But then again, she was a musician. He lifted her, and her weight felt just right in his arms—something he could carry, but heavy enough that he knew she was worth the effort.
“Sorry,” he muttered, as he saw his hands against her gray hoodie and yoga pants. “I’m getting you dirty.”
“They’ll wash.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Am I hurting your arm?”
He shook his head. Nobody ever worried about whether he could take a little pain. With the five wild cousins, all of their elders had assumed they would tough it up when they got hurt. Sometimes, he had vague, sweet memories of his own mother’s tenderness, but it was so long ago, and he’d been so young, that maybe he’d just dreamed those memories up.
“I’m pretty tough,” he mentioned. He didn’t usually have to point that out to people.
Her arms tightened around his neck as she tried to lift her weight off his arms. “Oh, no, I am?”
He tightened his hold. “The cut’s on the outside, Bouclettes. I told you. I’m fine.”
She searched his face, her arms still holding her weight off his.
He jostled her body gently. “I’m fine.”
She relaxed slowly, watching his face, and as he failed to flinch, she slowly curled back into his chest, easing back toward that dreamy, sleepy state.
So he carried her between those last two rows of roses, from the house she’d stolen from him to his, in the soft dawn. She mostly snuggled into him, but once she stretched out an arm and let it trail over the rose petals, still wet with dew. When she brought her hand back, she drew the dew droplets down his cheek, a cool freshness against his morning stubble.
And she did fit absolutely perfectly in his bed. By the time he came back from washing his hands, she was already nearly asleep again, all the honey shades of her nestled into his white sheets. He sat on the edge of the bed, sneaking a caress of her hair and shoulder. Her eyes blinked open, and she reached for him, pulling him down with her and kissing his chest, her hands running with this dreamy softness over his arms, down to his wrists.
“I think you’re in my dreams,” she whispered.
He leaned over her, on a surge of hungry pleasure at the way his body now caged hers in his big bed. “What do you want me to do in your dreams?”
A sleepy, sleepy smile, as her lashes fell against her cheeks and her face lifted to him. “Growl like that,” she murmured. “And do whatever you want.”