He pulled a thick washcloth that was a soft beige color and rolled up in an arrangement with a bunch of other ones out of a steel pail and cleaned his stomach. He rinsed it, draped it over the edge of the sink, turned to the door, switched off the light and walked back into her bedroom.
She was down, moon and streetlights coming through the windows to show her on her side, body pointed to the bathroom, head on a pillow, legs curled up, arm in front of her over her breasts, and Christ. Even seeing that through the shadows, he wished he could sketch so he could have that image, frame it and look at it whenever he wanted.
She reached out the arm at her breasts to yank down the covers, pushing up as she did to get under them herself.
Hix hit the bed, stretched out on his back and hooked an arm around her waist to pull her into his side.
He slid his hand up, encountered bra and asked, “You sleep in this?”
“Not usually.”
He unhooked it, and with a few deft movements, had the straps down her arms.
He tossed it to the floor then curled her into him.
“Well, uh . . . all I can say about that is that you should teach classes on how to do it,” she remarked. “I don’t think I’ve ever been divested of a bra that expertly.”
Hix chuckled.
He’d started the day on the news a man had been murdered.
And in bed with Greta, he was ending it chuckling.
“That was a pretty one, sweetheart, but they’re always better off than they are on.”
“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled against his chest, pressing her now-bared breasts to his side.
As with everything he was discovering with Greta, it felt great.
He stroked her up her spine, over her shoulder and down her arm as far as he could reach since she’d curled it around his middle.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah, Hix,” she answered, underlining that by snuggling closer. “You need me to set an alarm?”
“I won’t sleep in.”
“Figure not,” she muttered.
She was worried he wouldn’t sleep at all.
He gave her a squeeze. “Just . . . it’s good. Don’t worry about anything.”
“Okay, darlin’.”
He held her close, smelling her hair, hints of her perfume.
She cuddled closer.
“Greta?”
“Yeah, Hixon.”
He lifted his head, twisted it and kissed the top of her hair.
“Thanks, baby,” he said there.
Her arm gave him a squeeze but she didn’t otherwise reply.
He relaxed.
Her weight melted into him.
He stared at her ceiling, felt her softness, her warmth, smelled her, and finally, his eyes drifted closed and Hix slept.
Headway
Hixon
HIX WOKE UP to a dark room.
The first thing he noticed was that he was in Greta’s bed.
The next thing he noticed was that he was alone.
The next was that he felt refreshed.
After that, he saw from her bedside clock it was before six in the morning. He also saw her wineglass and his bourbon glass were no longer where they’d set them the night before.
Last, he smelled bacon cooking.
Having woken on his side facing Greta’s side of the bed, he rolled to his back, did a stretch then rolled again and threw his legs on the floor.
He went to her bathroom, flipped on the light, used the facilities and then headed to the sink.
He washed his hands, splashed water on his face and dried it with a fluffy, white hand towel.
A quick survey of all her cabinets told him she didn’t have a spare toothbrush but he found some mouthwash in her medicine cabinet. He rinsed with it, spit it out and headed back into her bedroom where he got dressed, all the way down to his boots.
He found Greta and the bacon in the kitchen.
She had her hair in a messy bun at the top of her head, tendrils floating down, and she was wearing a simple, short robe in gray T-shirt material.
A robe that clung to her hips and ass in a way Hix was going to have to expend a goodly amount of effort in order to ignore.
The bacon was in a frying pan on her stove and she had her back to him, tending it.
“Babe,” he called.
She turned to him, looked him up and down and smiled.
It was lucky he’d made it to the island which gave him an excuse for the fact her smile made him stop dead.
Not to mention, the robe clung to her tits almost better than it did her hips and ass.
Fortunately, she took his mind off of this by announcing, “If you think you’re leaving my house without a good breakfast in your belly, Hixon Drake, think again.”
The good of her smile shifted away as he replied gently, “This is not what you want to hear. And it’s brutal, sweetheart, so I hope the indications you’re giving me that you can take it mean you can actually take crap like this. But as much as I appreciate you lookin’ out for me, I know Nat Calloway’s last meal from getting the coroner’s report, which included the contents of his stomach. I’m grateful for your concern but stuff like that makes a man’s appetite not what it used to be.” He hated to see her pale so he finished, “It’ll pass.”
“You need to eat, darlin’.”
“I’m not hungry, baby.”
“I don’t mean to be flippant in the face of certain tragedy, Hix, but I simply cannot believe even murder beats the smell of bacon.”
On her words, he felt his stomach rumble.
She might have heard it, she might not and just was bent on her need to look after him when she repeated on a tender push, “I get what you’re saying, Hix, darlin’, but you need to eat.”
“Right, I’ll let you feed me, Greta, but not to be rude, please, God, no biscuits and gravy.”
Her brows shot up. “Are you telling me you, a Hoosier, do not like stick-to-your-ribs biscuits and gravy?”
“White gravy should be smothered over a chicken-fried steak and that’s its only use.”
“How weird,” she murmured.
“Not weird, just my opinion,” he replied.
“No, Hix, it’s weird because I agree.”
He stared at her.
No one in the entire state of Nebraska agreed with that.
She shot him a grin. “So, rest assured, no biscuits and gravy. Just eggs as you like ’em, bacon, toast, and ranch-style beans, you’re in the mood.”
Suddenly, he was starving.
“Beans sound good,” he muttered.
She tipped her head to a full coffeepot and said, “Mugs in the cupboard. Creamer in the fridge. You want sugar, it’s in that canister on the island, spoons in the drawer by the dishwasher.”
He moved to the coffee. “Gotcha.”
“Egg order?” she prompted.
“Fried, over medium.”
“Toast order?”
He was pulling down a mug and looked to her. “Toast order?”
“Light, medium, toasty, burnt,” she explained.
“You do toast to order?”
“It’s not hard. There’s a little dial to the side, you see,” she teased. “You want burnt, I’ll turn it all the way to ten.”
He shot her a grin. “Medium.”
She gave him a brief nod and he made his coffee while she moved around, dealing with bacon, eggs, beans, toast, butter.
He took his mug to the end of the counter closest to her where the sink and dishwasher were, catty-corner to where she was at the stove in the middle of the back wall, and he leaned a hip against it.