1001 Dark Nights (7 page)

But as the evening wore on, he hadn’t asked because it’d been easy—ridiculously so—how well they got along.

Maybe because they were both on their best behavior. Maybe it was something else that Sutton was too superstitious to name. Tempting to let this easy camaraderie lie, but he needed to know exactly where he stood with her. “Did you see Stitch and Paige last night or today?”

“No. I pretty much avoided everyone. Stayed in my camper and worked on some jewelry.”

“Why?”

“I figured a few people saw that kiss at the rodeo grounds and I didn’t want to explain it. Or you. I wanted to make sure we were on the same page—hah! Poor word choice, being on
that
Paige since that’s now Stitch’s job—before we put ourselves out there in public.”

He nodded.

“So I’m really grateful you opened up your home and we can get to know each other as friends.”

Fuck. There was the word he’d feared. “Friends?” he repeated. She sure as fuck hadn’t wanted to be friends when she’d practically tackled him to her bed.

“Yeah. I mean you were right to put the brakes on us yesterday. I’m more impulsive in my personal life than I should be. Just like you said, you’re the calm, quiet voice of reason. So if we spend this week getting to know each other, on, ah—another level, our relationship will seem less suspicious this weekend when we’re together.”

“Less like we’re literally doin’ a horse trade to get something that each of us wants?”

She laughed. “Exactly. Being friends puts us more at ease.”

“Because it’s all about appearances.” That came out with a bitter edge.

“It has to be. I don’t want to get caught in a lie. Wouldn’t that be the most mortifying thing you can think of?”

No, the most mortifying thing I can think of is getting friend-zoned by you in the first four hours of play.

Damn. No wonder he didn’t put himself out there. Good thing he’d asked about their parameters before he’d made a move.

But Sutton had to respect her for taking the time to consider her boundaries when she clearly had none yesterday. Yet, the bottom line for him hadn’t changed. He needed London to work his horse—no matter how much he wanted to work her over in his bed nine ways to Sunday.

Friends. He could do that. Hell, he oughta be used to it by now.

But fuck if he wasn’t tired of denying himself, even when it was his own damn fault. Demanding she stay with him in his house. Cooking for her. What people said about him was true. He was too damn nice and accommodating, but he did have an ulterior motive—hot kinky sex. But he didn’t want London to feel obliged to fuck him, which sounded ridiculous in his head and would sound even more idiotic if he said it out loud. He needed to retreat, regroup, before he stuck his boot in his mouth.

Sutton forced a yawn and then stood. “Sorry. It’s getting late.”

London’s eyebrows shot up. “Late? It’s only eight-thirty.”

Shit. “Huh. Well, it seems later than that which is a sign I should call it a night.”

“Oh. Well. Sure. Do you mind if I stay up and wash some dirty clothes?”

“Help yourself to whatever you need.”

“Thank you. I was afraid I’d be walking around naked tomorrow morning since everything I own is dirty.”

Do not think about naked and dirty and London in the same sentence.

Friends, remember?

Repeat it. F-r-i-e-n-d-s.

Still, this was gonna be a long damn week.

Chapter Six

Now London understood why people called Sutton Grant “The Saint.”

She’d been trying to get under his skin—okay mostly she’d been trying to get into his Wranglers—for the past four days and the man hadn’t been tempted even once, as far as she could tell.

They spent their free time together. She stuck close while he cooked supper, tasting and touching and forcing him to feed her little tidbits. She wore pajama short shorts and a camisole that showed a lot of her skin when they watched TV. When he’d mentioned suffering from a sore neck, she’d offered to give him a massage, but he’d spoken of the personal massager his therapist had lent him. When she’d noticed his razor-stubbled face and volunteered to shave off the scruff, he’d just smiled and said he’d pick up razors next time he went to town.

A saint.

But...London knew he watched her. He watched her work with Dial—from a distance. He watched for her truck to pull into the drive at the end of her workday—from a distance. He watched her doing beadwork—from a distance. But he watched her watching TV up close and personal. He watched her all the damn time.

But that’s all the man did. Watched.

What the hell was he waiting for?

Maybe he’s been watching you for some sort of sign.

She’d had a huge fucking neon sign over her head from the moment they’d met that flashed “Available Now!” What more did he need?

Maybe he’s not attracted to you.

Wrong. She’d felt his attraction when he’d kissed her. It’d been hard to miss or ignore as it’d dug into her belly.

Maybe he wants to stick to your business deal.

So he was saving his performance for the weekend when he’d have to be all over her?

Performance. Why did that word turn her stomach? Because she wanted it to be more? To be real?

It’d felt real on Saturday as those amazing eyes of his had eaten her up the way she knew his mouth wanted to. It’d felt real on Sunday, seeing his shy, flirting side behind the serious persona. But Monday morning he’d acted buddy-buddy—she’d half expected him to give her a noogie—and it’d been that way between them ever since, no matter how much she tried to turn the sweet saint into a red-hot sinner.

After London parked at Sutton’s place, she opted to keep her sour mood to herself and headed straight for the corral rather than stopping inside the house first.

The day had turned out to be a scorcher. She stripped out of her long-sleeved shirt to just her camisole. Grabbing her tack out of the barn, she draped it over the metal railing. She looped the rope around her neck and whistled twice, surprised when Dial came trotting over. They played catch and mouse for a bit, not in an ornery way, but playful and she was happy to see the reappearance of that side of the horse.

This first week she’d planned on earning Dial’s trust. He’d balked but each day he made a baby step. Pushing too hard too fast caused backsliding into familiar behavior.

Maybe that’s what’s going on with Sutton. You’re pushing a man to get what you want. What if that’s not what he wants?

She’d get to the bottom of it tonight.

Since Dial had shown improvement, London decided to treat him with some oats. She’d sprinkled too many in the bucket and reached in to scoop some back out when Dial tried to crowd her to get his face in the bucket.

“Hey, rude boy, back off.” She turned to move the bucket aside and she felt a sharp, hard nip on her upper arm. “Motherfucking son of a whore!” She swung the bucket up and dropped it on the other side of the fence. Something hot and wet flowed down her arm. She expected to see horse slobber but it was blood.

So much for the old wives’ tale about horses bolting at the scent of blood. Dial just stared at her, unmoving, his tail flicking back and forth, trying to intimidate her.

Fuck that.

London rose up, making herself as big as possible, staring him right in the eyes. “Back off,” she said sharply. “Now.”

Dial backed up.

She walked over to where she’d left her shirt. Her arm stung. Small, hard horse bites hurt worse than anything, tender flesh caught between that powerful jaw. It’d been a while since a bite had broken the skin.

“London?”

Shit, shit, shit. She’d hoped she could get inside and cleaned up before seeing Sutton. No such luck.

“What’s wrong?” He tried to grab her injured arm to spin her around and she hissed at him, cradling her elbow with her hand. “What the hell happened?”

“Dial bit me.”

“Lemme see.”

“Not a big deal. It’ll be fine once it’s cleaned out.”

“Let me fucking see it, London. Now.”

She glanced up at him.

Fury blazed in his eyes when he saw the blood. “Let’s go inside and I’ll take a closer look.” He gently lifted her arm until it was parallel with her shoulder. Then he grabbed her shirt from her free hand and held it beneath the bite to catch the blood. “Hold it like this. Did he get you anywhere else?”

“He’s not like a wolf or a dog with sewing machine teeth that just keep attacking. One chomp and that’s it.”

Muttering something, he looked over at the corral then back at her. “Come on.”

Sutton kept his hand on top of hers beneath the wound as he led her into the house through the patio door. She expected he’d stop in the kitchen but he directed her down the hallway opposite of her wing, into his bedroom. She got an image of heavy wood furniture before she found herself in a large bathroom.

He seated her on the toilet—the lid had already been down, an extra point for that—and propped her forearm on a towel on the countertop. “How bad does it hurt?”

“You don’t need to make a big deal about this. And don’t worry. I won’t cry.”

Then Sutton was right in her face. “You don’t have to be the tough chick with me. Now tell me how bad it hurts.”

“It stings. Worse than my foot getting tromped on but not as bad as getting bucked off and landing on my ass.”

“That’s a starting point.” He pushed a loose hank of hair behind her ear. “Sit tight while I dig out my first aid kit.”

While Sutton rummaged in a tall cabinet, she checked out the space. No bland white fixtures, tiles, or vanity in here. Gray cabinets with black accents. The countertop was black, the sinks were gray. The walls of the glass-fronted walk-in shower were frosted, but behind that she could see the walls were speckled with the same color scheme. The space was wholly masculine yet classy.

“You ready for me to clean this out and gauge the damage?” he asked softly.

“Shouldn’t I ask for your medical qualifications first?”

“Helicopter medic in ’Nam. Did two tours in the medical corps during the Gulf War, then a stint in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

London smiled. “And some people say you don’t have a sense of humor. Wait, is it considered bathroom humor if you actually crack jokes in the bathroom?”

“Now who’s the funny one? So it’s okay if I poke around?”

“Take off your belt so I have something to bite down on.”

She watched as he uncapped a bottle of antiseptic. Every muscle in her body tightened.

“You weren’t kiddin’ about needing the strap, were you, darlin’?”

Whoa. She could take that the wrong way—but so could he. She said nothing and shook her head.

“Maybe you’d better look away and focus on something else.”

London locked onto the visage that’d distract her—Sutton’s handsome face. She knew he’d shaved this morning but dark stubble already coated his cheeks, jaw, and throat. She’d fallen into a fantasy where he left beard burns on her throat as he ravished her when he said, “Doin’ okay?”

“I guess.” She hissed at the stinging spray.

“This stuff will kick in soon and it has a numbing agent.”

“How bad does it look? Is the skin flapping so I’ll need stitches?”

“No. The bleeding’s mostly stopped now.” He pressed a gauze pad over the mark.

“Fuck that stings.”

“Almost done.”

The way he said it... “No, you’re not. And if that’s the case? I’d rather sit on the counter than the toilet. Then you won’t have to bend down and get a crick in your neck.” She stood before he could argue. But he curled his hands around her hips and hoisted her up. She automatically widened her knees so he could step between them.

When he reached for her arm, the backs of his knuckles brushed the outside of her breast and her nipple immediately puckered. Because Sutton had his head angled down, she couldn’t tell if he’d noticed or not.

But she noticed everything about him. The scent of clean cotton mixed with the darker scent of oil emanating from beneath his starched collar. His full lips were parted as he concentrated on his task, but his breathing stayed steady. She wanted to run her fingers through his dark hair, trap his beautiful face in her hands and suck on those lips until his mouth opened for her kiss. Whisper secrets in his ear while his hair teased her cheek.

Mostly she wanted to ask the question that’d been burning on her tongue for days.

Do it.

“Are you ever going to make a move on me?”

That caught his attention. “What?”

“That wasn’t a question to be answered by another question. Just tell me the truth.”

Sutton lifted his head. “Where’s this coming from,
friend
?”

Hey, was that sarcastic? She squinted at him. “It’s coming from the fact we’re supposed to be acting like boyfriend and girlfriend and you haven’t kissed me or touched me beyond a friendly pat since we were in the camper, and I’m pretty sure kissing and petting is something we need to practice. A lot. So to recap, you haven’t touched me since Saturday. It is now Wednesday.”

“I know what day it is, London,” he said testily.

“Oh yeah? Do you know what I call it? Hump day.”

Silence as Sutton taped a chunk of gauze over the bite.

“I thought you’d at least crack a smile at that.”

“It’s really fucking hard to smile when you’re bleeding in my bathroom because my douche-nozzle horse took a bite of you. Sometimes I think that nasty motherfucker deserves to spend his life isolated, and I don’t know why I give a shit that he’s properly trained since I’d like to ship him off to the damn glue factory.”

“He didn’t do it on purpose,” she said softly.

His angry eyes finally met hers. “The fuck he didn’t.”

Seeing that fierceness? For
her
? Immediate lady boner.

“Can I tell you a secret, Sutton?”

“What?”

And then she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell him that Dial had shown remarkable progress in just four days. Because if she told him that...then what was his incentive to keep her here?