It was a lie but, hell, what was one more? On his way out, he ducked into Emma’s office and grabbed one of the umpteen pads of sticky notes she had scattered on the desk and rummaged around until he found a Sharpie marker.
Once upstairs, he went straight into their shared bathroom. He peeled the top sticky note off the pad and stuck it to the mirror, and then pulled the cap off the Sharpie.
Emma stared at the notes stuck to the mirror, her fingers curled over the edge of the sink. Her face was washed. Hair and teeth brushed. It was time to go out and curl up on the couch and try to sleep.
I hate broccoli. And peas.
Great. So he wasn’t a fan of green vegetables. Where was the information she really needed to know—namely, whether or not he wore pajamas? It hadn’t occurred to her to worry about it before but, holy hell, she was worrying about it now.
She was wearing pajamas, of course. Or what passed for them in her world. A well-worn and oversized University of New Hampshire T-shirt over soft, flannel boxers. She’d considered buying something prettier and a little more feminine, but she didn’t want to send mixed messages to the man who’d be sleeping in her bed.
All she could do was hope Sean had put the same consideration into his sleeping attire. He probably didn’t sleep in the buff, despite the deliciously vivid visual of that her imagination had no trouble conjuring. He’d been in the army for twelve years—a good chunk of that deployed overseas—and surely they weren’t in the habit of sleeping nude.
Flannel would be nice. And not battered shorts, like hers. Long pants and a long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to his throat would be nice, like something Ward Cleaver would have worn to bed in his 1950s’ sitcom.
When she finally dropped the curtain on the mental drama and left the bathroom, she was a little disappointed he was already asleep. Clearly he wasn’t struggling to hold back the reins of runaway sexual attraction like she was. He’d dimmed the overhead light, but she could hear him softly snoring and make out the sheet pulled halfway up his stomach. His naked stomach, which led her gaze to his naked chest and then to his naked shoulders, the muscles nicely highlighted by the way he slept with his arms raised over his head.
Was the rest of him naked, too?
“When you stare at somebody who’s sleeping,” he mumbled without moving or opening his eyes, “they usually wake up.”
Busted. Her face burned as though his words were a blowtorch and she rushed across the room to slap the light switch off. In the faint glow of moonlight penetrating her curtains, she went to her couch and tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t quite long enough, but she curled up under the light cotton blanket and closed her eyes.
Getting caught staring on the first night was embarrassing, but at least he wasn’t a mind reader. There was no way he could guess she’d been wondering what he wore from the waist down.
“Good night, Emma.”
The quiet, husky voice in the darkness made her shiver. “’Night, Sean.”
A little less than seven hours of tossing and turning later, Emma’s question was answered—much to the detriment of her recently revived libido.
At some point during the night, Sean had thrown off the sheet. Probably right around the time he rolled onto his stomach. With his hands shoved under his pillow and one knee drawn up a little, she had a clear view of his ass—showcased perfectly in dark blue boxer briefs.
Even though she was careful not to look directly at the ass in question, Sean stirred. He shoved his face a little deeper into the pillow and stretched one of those not-quite-awake stretches that made his entire body—and hers—vibrate and the muscles of his back ripple.
Since there was no way she couldn’t stare directly at that view, but she didn’t want to get caught looking again, Emma scrambled off the couch. Grabbing the stack of clothes she’d put out the night before, she went into the bathroom and closed the door against temptation.
When she emerged a while later, refreshed and dressed and ready to face the day, Sean was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his face with his hands. He’d thrown on a pair of jeans, but she noticed immediately he hadn’t done up the fly.
“Good morning,” she said, injecting a little more cheer into her voice than she felt.
“Morning.”
So, not a morning person, then. Since, unlike her, he hadn’t had any problem falling asleep, she didn’t think he was still tired. “If I know Gram, she’s already working on breakfast and I didn’t get my lack of cooking ability from her.”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
He didn’t seem inclined to make conversation, so she left the room and followed the heavenly scent of coffee and bacon to the kitchen. “Morning, Gram.”
Cat paused in stirring a big batch of scrambled eggs in her favorite cast-iron skillet, which had been sadly neglected in her absence. “Morning, sweetie. Is Sean up?”