A sound broke through her reverie and she turned her head.
The damn man was snoring. Slightly, very slightly. But it was an unmistakable sign that he was already dead to the world.
Meanwhile, the simple fact that she would be sleeping next to him—in the same room—would keep her and her hormones up all night long. And no amount of self-lecturing was going to make a difference. If it did, she’d have stopped wanting Red Callahan weeks ago.
She peeked again, watched his chest rise and fall. The relaxed pose, his long body stretched out over the bed, brought all sorts of completely delicious—and absolutely off limits—ideas to mind.
Aaaaand, there she went again, doing that whole not supposed to think about him but doing it anyway thing. She rolled her eyes at herself and grabbed a T-shirt and shorts out of her bag. After changing in the bathroom—he might be dead to the world, but she wasn’t chancing it—she started to pull back the covers. She held her breath, but a quick scan revealed nothing scary. Before she could slip in, a soft, almost silent knock sounded at the door. Soft enough that Red didn’t so much as twitch.
Had to be the wrong room. Ignoring it, she slid into bed. But as she reached for the lamp, the knock sounded again, just a little louder this time. And a careful, quiet whisper through the door.
“Ms. Muldoon?”
Okay, that wasn’t a wrong room. She padded across the floor, giving Red’s bed a wide berth, and peered out the peephole. The front desk clerk with the slick, thinning hair stood in front of her door, shifting nervously from side to side like a skittish two-year-old before they brought out the saddle for the first time.
Well, shit. She made sure the chain was secured and cracked the door open. “Yes?”
He gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but the maid on this floor let me know this room didn’t have towels.” He held up his hands and she saw a few folded white towels in his hands.
“Oh.” Peyton didn’t remember if the bathroom had towels or not, but a few extra never hurt. Her arm bumped into the door, and she realized she couldn’t get through the small crack the chain allowed. After a moment’s consideration, Peyton planted her foot a few inches behind the door, released the chain, and opened it wider. Reaching for the towels, she tugged.
But rather than let go, the clerk snatched her wrist and held on in a shockingly firm grip. “Why don’t you come out here and get them?”
“What the . . .” She jerked her arm, but keeping her foot planted so the door wouldn’t open further didn’t give her much leeway. Suddenly she was dragged off her feet and pulled back against something warm and hard. The door opened wider, propped by one thick, slightly hairy, tanned forearm. And Red’s voice rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her back.
“Well now, talk about hospitality. The front desk clerk, coming all the way down here just to see if we’re doing all right. Oh look. Towels.” He drawled the words hard, making a mockery of the conversation. His other arm snaked around her middle, pulling her more tightly against his front, fingers splayed over her abdomen. “Honey, did you call for some room service?”
Honey? Seriously? “No, dear,” she said through clenched teeth. “I didn’t.”
Red’s voice dropped, lethally soft. “Then I might just be wondering what our friend the desk clerk is doing here, away from his post, when we weren’t expecting him.”
The man muttered, “My mistake, wrong room,” and stepped away, his back running into the metal railing on the other side of the sidewalk.
“Okay, then.” Red pulled Peyton to the side and stepped around so he alone was in the doorway. “Nighty night.” And with that, he shut the door with a quiet, but decisive click, and locked the dead bolt.
“Jackass,” she muttered.
“He wasn’t going to win any congeniality awards,” Red agreed, leaning back against the door.
“I meant you.” She rolled her eyes.
Red ignored that. “And exactly what the hell were you thinking, opening the door to that idiot? Are you trying to get yourself hurt?”
“Please, like that excuse for a man would actually get through the door.” But the thought that things could have turned out differently chilled her a little. In her defense, she added, “I can do it myself. I’ve been taking care of me and my own for long enough.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
His soft words caught her attention. “What?”
He eased off the door and took a step her way. “You’ve been holding it together for years, haven’t you?”