Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

But at least you had your apartment then. Now your stuff is in boxes and a duffel bag next to a futon in your best friend’s living room.

The world of difference between our situations couldn’t be more obvious, and yet Boone isn’t flashy about his money. Law had waited a whole thirty seconds before he told me his salary to try to impress me. I’ve never heard Boone talk about money . . . ever.

Maybe that’s because he has so much, it’s not something he even thinks about.

Boone lowers me onto the bed. “You’re staying in here.”

“But this is your room.” My tone takes on a hint of panic.

“Good eye.”

“I can’t stay in here. With you.”

Boone crosses both arms over his chest. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I can’t. That’s not— It just— I can’t.”

Boone tugs off his ball cap and drops it on top of a nightstand before running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “It’s too late to argue about this. Let’s wash up, get some sleep, and figure it out in the morning.”

I’m not trying to be ungrateful—really, I’m not—but I can’t share a bed with Boone. I know we slept together, but this is intimacy on a whole different level.

“But—”

“You’ve got a sprained ankle and you’re wearing a damn Aircast. It’s not like I’m gonna try to f*ck you tonight, Rip. We both need sleep.”

My nipples, traitorous little bitches that they are, perk up when he says try to f*ck you. Boone doesn’t miss it.

“No matter how bad I want to.”

The heat blazing in his blue eyes sears me. For long moments, I meet his stare, and with each passing second, that heat spreads through my body.

What is it about this man that sets me off like no one ever has before? It’s not fair that I have no control over my physical reactions when it comes to Boone.

I swallow, wishing he’d say something.

“You’re killing me, sugar. You keep looking at me like that, and I won’t be able to keep my word.” His tone is husky, dripping with promise, and I’m seconds away from giving in.

Surprisingly, Boone breaks our stare first, turning and jamming his hands in his pockets. When he turns back around a few moments later, the heat is banked.

“I’ll carry you into the bathroom and you can do your thing. Holler if you need any help. There’s probably an extra toothbrush in the bottom drawer. Housekeeper stashes them in every bathroom.”

Without any more discussion, he picks me up off the bed and takes me to a bathroom bigger than my apartment. Well, my old apartment. After Boone carefully lowers my feet to the floor, he shuts the door behind me, and I hobble to the toilet and sit down on the lid.

What am I doing here?

Taking a deep breath, I pull up my metaphorical big-girl panties and do what I need to do. With my face washed and teeth brushed, I open the door to find Boone tossing a T-shirt and sweats on the bed. Both massive.

“You can change while I’m in there.” He picks me up and moves me back to the bed before tossing the clothes closer to me. “This is the best I could do on short notice. I’ll be back in a few.” The words are stilted, missing the easiness I’m used to from him.

Boone disappears into the bathroom and I hastily change. The T-shirt is like a dress on me, the same size as the one he put on me when I was drunk that night outside the White Horse, so I forgo the sweatpants. It might be a bad idea, but they’re way too big.

I eye the bed. This is a terrible idea. But I climb under the covers anyway, and pull them up to my chin.

My brilliant plan includes pretending to be asleep by the time he gets out of the bathroom, but I don’t have to fake it. Exhaustion pulls me under in record time.





39





Boone





A streak of possessiveness flashes through me when I see Ripley sound asleep in the middle of my bed.

I never felt like that with Amber, probably because she didn’t like this room and insisted on staying in one of the guest suites on the rare occasion she spent the night here.

The more insights I have like this about Amber, the more I understand that I dodged a bullet. My pride may have taken a beating, but I was lucky it happened the way it did. I was so caught up with the idea of having someone who was only mine, and starting a family and building a life together, that I was blind to the fact that the person I picked wasn’t the right one.

As always, Ma knew better.

When I slide under the covers and turn on my side, Ripley’s sleeping form snuggles into my body so that my chest presses against her back. I wrap my arm around her, and the tension in my body releases.

Before I can think about why that is, I’m out too.



The sun beats down on me, and I toss the covers off, trying to escape the heat. The heat.

I jerk awake, expecting to see a dark-haired wildcat in bed beside me, but she’s gone.

Did I dream all that?

I catch sight of the sweatpants I’d offered her last night still folded up on the foot of the bed.

No. Definitely not a dream.

Which means that my wildcat is somewhere limping around my house when she’s supposed to be staying off her ankle so it can heal.

I bolt out of bed and head for the door. Normally I’d stop to grab some clothes because I usually sleep buck-ass naked, but last night, out of courtesy for Ripley, I put on some gym shorts. I follow my nose into the kitchen, but I can’t place the scent.

Ripley lifts a basket out of the fryer and drops fresh golden lumps onto a paper-towel-covered plate.

Holy shit. Is she making donuts?

My morning wood turns into a full hard-on, and not only because she’s wearing just my shirt, which skims the top of her thighs when she reaches up into the cupboard.

Sweet Lord, I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I promise I’m gonna do it again real soon.

Ripley turns and startles when she sees me, dropping a bag of powdered sugar on the counter. A puff of white escapes from the bag as she slaps a hand over her chest.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. A man your size shouldn’t be able to move that quietly.”

“Did you seriously make donuts? From scratch?”

“Yeah.”

I take a step closer. “I should have brought you home a long time ago.”

I stop less than a foot in front of her, and f*ck, she smells amazing. If women wore donut-scented perfume, I guarantee they’d have to beat men off.

“I need to drop these last three in so I can finish up and make the icing.”

Lowering my head to bring my lips an inch away from her temple, I tell her, “As sexy as you look right now, wearing nothing but my T-shirt and making one of my favorite foods, you need to get out of the kitchen and off that ankle.”

Her breath ghosts across my skin, which doesn’t help my hard-on.

“I’ve been sitting while they fry.” She jerks her head toward the bar stool behind her.

I pick her up and put her on the stool. “I’ll finish them.”