He felt it in his bones—her signature on this magical place, the way she was coaxing all of it back to life with her passion and vision. And suddenly, Cameron wanted to be a part of it too, somehow, someway. To earn a portion of the peace she was building—to bask in it, to share it.
He knocked lightly on the door, wondering if she was home and half expecting a fairy or some other mythical creature to open the door.
“Coming, Shawn!”
He heard her voice from inside—from upstairs, he thought. He leaned to the side to peek into the window, but the room inside was dark and he couldn’t see anything.
“I know I overslept, but I hope you were able to—”
The door opened abruptly, and there, in the doorway of the enchanted cottage, stood Margaret Story, a drowsy, tousled angel, and the warm-blooded woman of Cameron Winslow’s favorite and filthiest fantasies.
Her glasses were missing, and her hair hung loose and long, falling in waves past her shoulders. His hungry eyes slipped from her hair to her neck, trailing lower to the V of a plush white terry cloth bathrobe that showcased the skin of her chest and upper neck. He lingered there for a moment before letting his eyes skate lower, to the belted knot at her tiny waist, then to her bare feet, which, he noted with a barely concealed groan, had cherry-red toenails.
Her gasp made his neck snap up, and his eyes slammed into hers. Whatever he’d long imagined about how Margaret would look if she ever loosened up? It paled mightily next to the vision before him. She was, hands down, the most unintentionally sexy woman he’d ever seen in his entire life.
“Cameron!”
“Meggie,” he choked out, the sound a twisted-up groan. He cleared his throat, willing his body to calm the fuck down. “Um, I . . . I needed to . . .”
She gathered the lapels of her robe in her hands, pulling it closed, her brown eyes searching his face with undiluted surprise. “You needed to . . .?”
“You’re fucking stunning,” he murmured, the words as shocking to him as they were to her.
“What?” she squeaked, her eyes widening, almost impossibly, to saucers.
Get it the fuck together, Cameron.
He clenched his jaw. What the hell was she doing answering the door looking like that anyway?
“I brought breakfast,” he said gruffly, thrusting the bag toward her and wondering what she was wearing under her robe. Christ, was she wearing anything at all? What if she was naked? What if the only thing between his palm and her skin was a glorified towel? His body responded to the thought, his blood coursing hot and fast to his cock, which swelled against the zipper of his jeans.
She licked her lips and pursed them together, reaching for the bag without dropping his eyes. “Cameron, what are you doing here?”
“I need a favor,” he said in a gravelly voice, letting his eyes rest on her tangle of chestnut waves, and forcing himself not to reach for one of the thick strands to test its softness with his fingers.
“A favor? From me?”
He nodded, placing one hand flat on the doorway, as much to hold himself up as lean a little closer to the bed-messy goddess before him. “Is Olson here?”
“No.”
“Can I come in?”
She shrugged halfheartedly, looking down at her bare toes before peeking back up at him. “Last night . . .”
“I was an asshole. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Why am I sorry?”
“Why were you an asshole?” she whispered.
Her eyes. Her fucking eyes looking at him like that. How was he supposed to lie to her?
“Because he was touching you.”
“That’s silly! He was just—”
“Doesn’t matter why, Meggie,” he muttered, lifting his chin just a touch as she stared up at him.
She dropped the hand that had been holding her robe together, and as she opened the door for him, he caught a glimpse of the warm, creamy skin just over her breasts.
“Yes,” she said gently. “You can come in.”
***
Margaret was having trouble filling her lungs completely.
From the moment she’d opened the door to see Cameron Winslow’s muscular body taking up most of the tiny doorway, the wind had been soundly knocked from her chest. The way he looked at her, like she was the most delicious morsel at a hundred-table buffet, made her toes curl.
“I thought you were Shawn,” she said, gesturing to the love seat in her snug sitting room. “Please sit.”
“I met Shawn,” said Cameron, taking a seat. “He told me where to find you.”
Cameron’s emerald eyes shone like jewels in the low light of her cottage, and she stared at him, still shocked by his unexpected visit. “Oh?”
“Yeah. But he didn’t seem that pleased about it.”
“He’s protective.”
Cameron didn’t smile at her, his face tight and intense. His eyes almost burned her, the way they stared, the way they seemed to see through her, into her. It made her feel naked.
“I understand.”
Two words that said nothing about his feelings for her, and yet they made her tremble with longing, her body clenching with need, with want, with . . . with . . . Get ahold of yourself, Margaret!