When the dryer turns off, I’m startled and pop my eyes open. Mace sets the dryer down and brushes through my hair for far longer than necessary. Am I imagining things?
He’s also held my hand a dozen times and hugged me tight.
He’s being nice.
I can’t let my imagination get carried away.
“Your hair is so soft,” he whispers, running his fingers through it. He lifts his gaze to meet mine in the mirror. “Do you ever wear it braided?”
I hold his gaze. My chest rises and falls with every deep breath. I swallow. “Sometimes, when I’m at the gym or cleaning the house.”
He smiles. “Maybe you’ll let me braid it later.”
My heart skips a beat. He’s serious. I don’t know how to respond. I’d let him braid my hair all damn day if he wanted, but what a peculiar suggestion.
Rounding in front of me, he holds out a hand. “Come. You need sleep.”
I rise and let him lure me out of the bathroom, surprised when he heads for his bed, even more shocked when he pulls the covers back and pats the mattress.
My lips part as I plan to question him. I should ask if he has a guest room, or why he wants me to sleep in his own bed. I haven’t seen inside most of the rooms down the hall, so I guess it’s possible he doesn’t have a guest room ready. But that seems unlikely. Why have all those rooms if none of them have a bed in them?
Instead of voicing my thoughts, I awkwardly climb onto his high bed, trying not to flash him. It’s not easy. The tee nearly reaches my knees, but I’m not wearing anything under it.
As I settle on my back, Mace pulls the covers over me and sits on the edge of the mattress. He drops a hand on the other side of my hips over the comforter. Reaching up to brush a lock of hair from my forehead, he says, “Do you need anything else right now, sweetheart?”
“No, Sir.” The two words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. Why did I call him Sir? It’s not necessary. This isn’t the inside of a romance novel. Except it feels exactly like that. Perhaps my total exhaustion is causing me to romanticize this experience.
I’ve lost my mind.
Normally, I can keep my quirky fantasies to myself. I may think odd things, but they don’t come out of my mouth. Most days, I have a filter.
My face heats as embarrassment consumes me. With pursed lips, I turn my head away from him. My heart races. He hasn’t responded to my stupid blabbering words. Maybe he won’t. Is it too much to hope he didn’t notice how I addressed him?
I’m fully aware that he isn’t moving. I don’t think he’s taken a breath since the word Sir escaped my lips.
I’m always so careful when I’m around him. It’s not as though I’ve seen him a hundred times. It’s only been six, and the last was a year ago. Each time, I fell deeper and deeper into an absurd lustful state with him.
I kept thinking my fixation would dissipate. One day, he would show up at the house, and I would see him through a new lens. Too old. Too grumpy. Too stern. Too anything.
But that never happened. Each time I was in his presence, I found myself even more enamored with him, as if I had a silly schoolgirl crush. I’m foolish. When I read books, I pretend he’s the hero. And I only read books in which the hero is larger than life. He’s always kind but firm. Older. Handsome. He treats the heroine like spun gold, taking care of her every need.
The best books include a hero who has strict rules and expects the heroine to follow them. If she doesn’t, he punishes her.
At that thought, I squirm under the covers. I shouldn’t be thinking about Mace like this or entertaining any sort of sexual thoughts. My father died yesterday. I’m devastated. He sent me here. He didn’t do so because he knew I was half in love with his protégé. He did so because he trusted Mace with his life. And mine.
Seconds tick by. I need a crack in the universe to open up and swallow me whole.
Mace slides his hand from my hip to my face. He cups my face and strokes my cheek. After several more long frozen moments, he slowly bends forward.
I hold my breath, having no idea what his intentions are.
His lips graze my temple, lingering as he hovers over me. Finally, he eases back. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he orders. “I’ll leave the door open. Call out if you need me.”
I don’t dare move or respond. I’m still too mortified to react.
Why on Earth did I call him Sir?
Chapter Four