LITMIR.BIZ

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use about nine Band-Aids, because the scratch was pretty long. But my hands were clumsy, and it was harder than it should’ve been. I wrapped his arm up firmly, then began tying the gauze ends in a knot.

      “That’s a little tight,” Ian said. I looked up. His mouth pulled up in the corner, and he held out his hand, which was turning quite red, the veins in his wrist starting to bulge.

      “Sorry!” I said, hastily untying the knot and unwrapping the bandage. “Okay. Ian’s boo-boo, take two.”

      This time, the gauze was too loose and kept slipping down. Plus, it was a little soggy from overapplication of the gooey stuff, so I grabbed a Band-Aid, tore it open and used it to hold the gauze in place. Added another one. This bandaging job was starting to look like Josephine—or Bowie—had done it. Not to mention that those Band-Aids were going to take some arm hair with them when Ian took this thing off. And still it was droopy! I adjusted the gauze wrap a bit, but it slid right back down, so I just patted his arm instead.

      “How’s that?” I asked, looking up at him.

      He was smiling. Not a lot, just a little, and more than enough. “Perfect,” he murmured.

      Without another thought, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed the living daylights out of him.

      His arms, injured and otherwise, went around me, pulling me against him. One hand slid through my hair, and he kissed me back fiercely. He was solid and, oh, just wonderful, his arms strong, his body hard, and he smelled like soap and rain. I leaned into him, my hands going through his soft, short hair, and deepened the kiss, getting a most satisfactory groan in return. My God, he felt so good, so … reassuring, somehow, so real and warm and safe, and his mouth was soft and hard at the same time, and he kissed me with such heat and intensity that I could barely stand. In the turkey struggles, my shirt had come untucked, and Ian’s hand slid under it, hot against my skin. My leg, my ruttish leg, was wrapped around his, and in another minute, I’d be pulling a Bowie. His mouth lowered to my neck, his hand moved to cover my breast, and my knees buckled and my head fell back, and for a second, I thought I might just slide to the floor in a boneless heap, pulling him on top of me.

      Then his mouth found mine again, and oh, that kiss, that life-changing kiss, because really, that’s how it felt, a kiss that meant something, promised something, made you want all sorts of things. It took me a minute to realize he was looking at me. My breath came in short little gasps, and underneath my hand, I could feel Ian’s heart thudding fast and hard.

      He didn’t say anything for a second, just tucked some hair behind my ears and looked at me, right into my eyes.

      “Would you like to stay?” he asked, running his thumb over my lower lip.

      I swallowed. Then I nodded. “Should we clean up first?” I whispered, glancing at the devastation the turkey had wrought.

      “No,” he said, then he took my hand and led me upstairs.

       CHAPTER TWENTY

      I WOKE UP ROUGHLY twelve hours later, completely and delightfully unrested. Oh, no. Not a lot of sleeping going on last night, no sir.

      I was smiling before I even opened my eyes. Purring, too, a bit. Felt like maybe I should be given a medal. And Ian … he definitely deserved one, too.

      I rolled over and opened my eyes. Ian’s side of the bed was empty, and the clock said 7:32 a.m. New day, new boyfriend, new world. Sigh! Ian McFarland was a thorough man, let me tell you. Made sure I was a very happy woman, know what I’m saying? Made sure a couple times.

      And I made him smile, and just the memory of that had my girl parts tightening. A smile from Ian really meant something. It was worth waiting for, that wonderfully goofy, melting smile.

      Somewhere around ten last night, we remembered that our dogs were outside and a turkey had made a huge mess. It was oddly cozy, cleaning up together, laughing, me figuring out where things went. Then Ian made peanut butter and banana sandwiches on whole wheat bread, poured us some milk, put everything on a tray and we had a little midnight snack in bed, the dogs sitting quietly in attendance, waiting for a crust or two to be tossed their way. And then Ian and I made each other very happy once more.

      So … what now? I wondered, climbing out of Ian’s big bed and looking around. Ah. A bathrobe, a rather old flannel robe I thought I’d look quite cute in, as it was Ian’s and Ian was now my honey. I pulled it on and breathed deeply. It smelled like him, giving my knees a pleasant wobble.

      Checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I tousled my hair a bit and grinned. There. Sex kitten. Meow! I fairly skipped downstairs, the smell of coffee rich and dark in the air. I couldn’t wait to see him smile again, because those smiles were gifts, they were sunshine after the storm, they were flowers bursting into bloom, they were Betty Crocker Supermoist Triple Chocolate Fudge. A giddy ribbon of happiness danced through my stomach. Ian McFarland liked me. Possibly more.

      At the bottom of the stairs, I sneaked a peek at my lover. What a delicious word! He stood in the kitchen, already dressed in a suit, complete with jacket. He looked … um … well, a little tense. His arms were folded, and he stared out the kitchen window at our two dogs, who were frisking and frolicking. Aw! Maybe they were in love, too. But Ian … Ruh-roh. His face was kind of … grim. Well. Maybe he was just tired. He’d brighten at the sight me, Callie Grey, wanton woman.

      “Good morning,” I said, leaning against the wall and smiling.

      His head jerked around. “Oh. You’re awake. I didn’t hear you.” He shoved his fists into his pockets. He didn’t smile. He looked, in fact … scowly.

      “Hi,” I said again, pushing my hair back. Sort of a reminder … I’m all tousled and unkempt because we did it three times last night. It seemed to miss its mark.

      His jaw was knotty. Probably not a positive sign. My smile felt a little less confident.

      “You probably need to get going, right?” he asked, swallowing.

      I sucked in a breath, my excellent mood falling to the ground, shot dead. “Wow. That is not what I expected.”

      He withdrew a hand from his pocket and scrubbed it over his jaw. “Well,” he said to the floor, “what … what exactly do you expect?”

      There was the smallest note of uncertainty somewhere in that question. Or I thought so, anyway. “Oh, gosh, Ian,” I said slowly. “How about ‘Good morning’ or ‘Last night was incredible’ or ‘Would you like some coffee?’”

      Ian didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor, as if … well, as if last night had been a huge mistake and he was trying to figure a way out of whatever expectations I might (and kind of did) have. Certainly I had time to wonder about what he was thinking, because he didn’t say a damn word.

      Crap. A lump wedged itself in my throat. Emotional diarrhea could not be far off.

      “There is coffee. If you want some,” Ian said carefully. And that was it. Jeez Louise. He looked at his watch.

      “You know what?” I said tightly. “I don’t want coffee. I’ll just get dressed and leave you alone, since that’s clearly what you’re after.”

      I turned to go back upstairs.

      Before I made it to the first step, he grabbed me by the waist. I squeaked in surprise, held there against his chest. “Wait,” he said in a low voice.

      I waited. Swallowed. Waited a few seconds more.

      “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

      “You should be,” I said, my voice a little breathy.

      “Are you crying?” he asked.

      “I’m very close.” Still, I couldn’t help feeling a bit turned on, hurt feelings or not.

      His hands slid up to my shoulders,

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