Sighing, she turned on her side. She’d wanted Nick’s help—no, more than that, she needed it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel like she was getting in way over her head.
The image of the soldiers inked on his right bicep came into her mind’s eye, their silhouettes dark and still. Six soldiers. Why six? Seven men on her father’s team had been killed in that enemy ambush. Maybe it wasn’t the memorial she’d first thought? Or maybe it was just symbolic of those who’d gone before him? The thought touched her heart. That day, she’d lost her father, but Nick had lost a whole family of people who no doubt meant the world to him. In that moment, sitting at the bar eating the meal he’d made for them, she’d realized they were connected in the grief born from the events of that day, and it had made her feel they weren’t strangers after all.
Except, really, what did she know about Nick? Ex-Special Forces. Had been with her father when he died—which made her eyes sting if she thought on it too much. Lived with his brother. Did occasional tattoos. Made kick-ass sloppy joes. Had a dimple on his left cheek and at least one tattoo. Helped her when he didn’t have to.
Actually, she supposed she knew more than a little.
And, geez, she’d come at him with a butcher knife.
He’d disarmed her in a flash of movement and muscle. In her terror, she hadn’t fully registered that moment, but her mind went back to it now. Replayed it. Resurrected the feel of his tense, hard body trapping hers against the counter, his masculine heat and the soft caress of his breath washing over her.
And now that hard body lay sleeping just down the hall.
A flush ran over her skin, and Becca tossed back the covers.
Sitting up, she reached for the lamp and squinted against the light when she turned it on. Lying there was no use. Her brain felt like that of a kid who’d consumed too much sugar, bouncing from one thing to the next, and her body was wired to the point of being jittery. There wasn’t much she could be doing for Charlie in the middle of the night, but that didn’t stop the urge from flooding through her.
Out of bed, she slipped on some sleep shorts under her old tee and stepped to the door. It opened with a click that revealed nothing but quiet darkness on the other side.
Keeping one hand on the wall to guide herself, she made her way to the big open kitchen and living room. At a panel of switches she’d noticed earlier, she tried each one until she turned on the cool, industrial fixture over the breakfast bar. It threw a wedge of gold on each side, casting illumination over both the kitchen and the closest edge of the living room.
She opened the fridge and surveyed the shelves and drawers. After all, the last thing Nick had said to her before they’d gone their separate ways at bedtime was “Make yourself at home. What’s mine is yours.” Which had left her mind churning on exactly what the full practical application of that principle might include . . . But, at the very least, she assumed it included midnight raids on his fridge. One of her worst and most favorite habits.
But the contents primarily fell into one of four categories: beer, other drinks, restaurant takeout and general leftovers, and meat.
Wrinkling her nose, she closed the lower door and opened the upper one. Icy air blasted out as her gaze landed on a two-deep stack of ice cream tubs, the double chocolate fudge brownie catching her eye in particular. “That’s more like it.”
She pushed the door shut and turned to the counter. And screamed.
Nick was standing like a silent phantom at the edge of the dim light. The half-gallon container flipped out of her hands and did a triple somersault in the air before she dove for it at the same time Nick did.
They crashed and she shrieked, her hands flush against a mountain of bare, hard flesh, and the tub of ice cream fell at their feet. His arms came around her, his greater weight nearly knocking her over and making them stumble until he’d all but pinned her against the counter.
Time froze for an instant, then Becca burst out laughing, the ridiculousness of the past ten seconds growing in hilarity the more she thought about what had just happened. She covered her mouth with one hand as her head fell back and her laughter devolved into a series of choked chortles she couldn’t control. She gasped for breath, her forehead falling against Nick’s chest.
His chest. Holy crap, the man was half naked and she was touching him. Her hand. Her face. Her stomach against his. The details of their position finally registered in her sleep-deprived brain.
He was all over her.
She lifted her gaze over the hard planes of his chest, getting snagged for a long moment on the swirling tribal pattern of black ink that ran over the bulge of his shoulder and down his arm. Finally she met the light green of his eyes. Nick stared down at her, one eyebrow arched, one corner of his mouth lifting enough to bring his dimple out to play.
“Hi,” she whispered, the release of the laughing fit making her shoulders lighter, less tense.