Boone disappears into the bathroom and I hastily change. The T-shirt is like a dress on me, the same size as the one he put on me when I was drunk that night outside the White Horse, so I forgo the sweatpants. It might be a bad idea, but they’re way too big.
I eye the bed.This is a terrible idea.But I climb under the covers anyway, and pull them up to my chin.
My brilliant plan includes pretending to be asleep by the time he gets out of the bathroom, but I don’t have to fake it. Exhaustion pulls me under in record time.
39
Boone
Astreakof possessiveness flashes through me when I see Ripley sound asleep in the middle of my bed.
I never felt like that with Amber, probably because she didn’t like this room and insisted on staying in one of the guest suites on the rare occasion she spent the night here.
The more insights I have like this about Amber, the more I understand that I dodged a bullet. My pride may have taken a beating, but I was lucky it happened the way it did. I was so caught up with the idea of having someone who was only mine, and starting a family and building a life together, that I was blind to the fact that the person I picked wasn’t the right one.
As always, Ma knew better.
When I slide under the covers and turn on my side, Ripley’s sleeping form snuggles into my body so that my chest presses against her back. I wrap my arm around her, and the tension in my body releases.
Before I can think about why that is, I’m out too.
* * *
The sun beats downon me, and I toss the covers off, trying to escape the heat.The heat.
I jerk awake, expecting to see a dark-haired wildcat in bed beside me, but she’s gone.
Did I dream all that?
I catch sight of the sweatpants I’d offered her last night still folded up on the foot of the bed.
No. Definitely not a dream.
Which means that my wildcat is somewhere limping around my house when she’s supposed to be staying off her ankle so it can heal.
I bolt out of bed and head for the door. Normally I’d stop to grab some clothes because I usually sleep buck-ass naked, but last night, out of courtesy for Ripley, I put on some gym shorts. I follow my nose into the kitchen, but I can’t place the scent.
Ripley lifts a basket out of the fryer and drops fresh golden lumps onto a paper-towel-covered plate.
Holy shit. Is she making donuts?
My morning wood turns into a full hard-on, and not only because she’s wearing just my shirt, which skims the top of her thighs when she reaches up into the cupboard.
Sweet Lord, I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I promise I’m gonna do it again real soon.
Ripley turns and startles when she sees me, dropping a bag of powdered sugar on the counter. A puff of white escapes from the bag as she slaps a hand over her chest.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. A man your size shouldn’t be able to move that quietly.”
“Did you seriously make donuts? From scratch?”
“Yeah.”
I take a step closer. “I should have brought you home a long time ago.”
I stop less than a foot in front of her, andfuck, she smells amazing. If women wore donut-scented perfume, I guarantee they’d have to beat men off.
“I need to drop these last three in so I can finish up and make the icing.”