Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Griffin tossed off his clothes, he was unsure which he needed most—to be clear of the dirt and grime that clung to him, or a nice bed to crash in.
Make that food. Lots of it. Someone had once figured a firefighter needed seven thousand calories a day, and he’d always thought that a huge exaggeration.
But he could consume twice that now. Burgers and fries.
A steak. An entire chicken… His mouth watered with the fantasy, knowing the reality was going to be far, far different.
Then he looked up and caught Lyndie’s expression as she watched him strip, which immediately put a different spin on his mood.
Her gaze was caught on his chest, his stomach…everywhere, as if she couldn’t help herself, but his body had been just a shell for so long it felt like a shock to have someone interested in it.
He adjusted quickly, and his hunger for sustenance turned in a distinctly different direction, only, just as with everything else he’d faced earlier in the day, he didn’t know what to do with it all.
Yes, he’d kissed her, and yes, all that alone time in the wilderness had combined into one ball of heat in his gut and also lower, but he didn’t plan to act on it.
Not while facing all he had to face here, because the sorry truth was, he had nothing, nothing left at all to offer a woman.
Not even sex.
So he turned his back on her and shucked off his pants, leaving him in just his shorts. That was the best show she was going to get.
The night was so full of noises—the wind, crickets, the cry of something mysterious—that he hesitated, wondering if there were mountain cats or bears he should be worried about. It was hard to believe that just on the other side of the timbered hill raged an out-of-control wildfire.
But he had the cold, hard memory of the day to prove it, and the grime that went along with it. With a deep breath, he stepped into the creek. Holy sh—
“Cold?” Lyndie asked sweetly.
Only freezing. “Just right.” He reached for the soap, scrubbing away at both the dirt and memories.
The water went up only to mid-thigh at its deepest point, but modesty had gone out the window years ago in his crowded apartment in college, and even more so out in the wildlands for weeks at a time with a coed crew.
The night remained unseasonably warm despite the wind rushing over his body like long fingers, reminding him of what Lyndie had said earlier.
He was alive. So very alive.
Dipping in the water to rinse off, he straightened and faced Lyndie, who stood smug and contrarily beautiful at the edge of the creek. In the meager light from the inn behind her, her eyes…danced? Hmm. The night suddenly took a different spin. “What are you up to, Lyndie Anderson?”
Five feet three inches of pure trouble, she shook her head. “Nothing.”
Right. Nothing. She made him want to run like hell, she made him want to laugh.
Scary combination.
“Better?” Again she used that sweet voice, and he had no doubt that he’d just been had. Little did she know that he was the master. “You know you have a little dirt spot…” Waggling his fingers, he gestured to her face.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Eyeing him suspiciously, she bent, scooped up some water, and scrubbed at her jaw.
“Not quite,” he said seriously, and pointed at her chin. “There.”
Again she bent, scooped more water, scrubbed.
He made his way out of the creek, splashing with each step. “Nope, it’s still there. Here—” Filling his hand with water, he brought it up and tipped it over her head.
Droplets rained down her cheeks and nose, into her eyes, which she opened and stabbed him with. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Smiling to himself, he bent to his bag for a clean pair of jeans and a shirt.
No towel, but being dirty had been far worse than being wet.
He shoved his legs into the pants. “I suppose you—” But his words stuttered to a halt because she was looking him over again, a long, frank gaze sliding down his wet body—a body that suddenly enjoyed remembering what it felt like to react to a woman.
“Lyndie.” Against his better judgment, he stepped closer. “What’s going on?”
“I’m…not sure.”
“You think being tired is making us both so…”
Her breath caught, and it wasn’t asthma, not this time. “So…what?”
Unbearably attracted? Aroused? He stared down at her mouth, which was only fair because she’d been staring at his. But while his body was able, his mind was not, and he took a big mental step back. “Nothing.”
He took a real step back as well. Disappointment flashed over her features, but she remained silent, for which he was grateful because he couldn’t possibly explain why, when he had a beautiful woman standing here, clearly wanting him, that he couldn’t give her what she wanted.
But he had no idea how to explain the fact he didn’t know his mind when it came to feeling again.
Bottom line, he couldn’t trust his emotions, and she shouldn’t either.
He pulled on a fresh T-shirt, buttoned up his Levi’s, and, unable to resist, he smiled and gestured to the creek. “Your turn.”
But she’d clearly sensed his withdrawal, and with a little laugh, she backed up too. “Oh, no. I don’t bathe with an audience.” She whirled on her heels and started toward the inn. “Let’s go, Ace. I owe you a meal.”
“What you owe me is the same strip show you just got.”
She stumbled for a step but caught herself. And then kept walking as if he hadn’t spoken.
But her ears glowed red in the moonlight.
Lyndie walked up the stone tiles, under the archway of the inn, extremely aware of the silent, incredibly sexy Griffin behind her. She couldn’t remember ever having a nearly naked man this close without also being nearly naked, and she wasn’t happy about the experience.
Little lights lined the aged stone pathway, and a scattering of pine trees swayed lightly in the night breeze. The ground crunched dry and brittle beneath their feet. So different from San Diego, or any other place she’d ever been for that matter.
She opened the front door and would have entered, but Griffin stopped her with a hand on her wrist. She looked at his hand, big and tanned on hers, then up into his eyes, which were filled with heat and frustration, which made no sense for a man who’d backed off first.
Then his free hand came up, his finger stroking a gentle line over her cheekbone.
“More dirt?” she asked, a little confused at all the conflicting things he stirred up within her.
“No dirt.”
Then why the hell was he looking at her like that? “I thought you were hungry.”
“Oh, I’m hungry,” he assured her.
“No.” She let out a little laugh. “Hell, no. You had your shot, Ace.” She slapped his hand away.
“Vámanos.” Heart racing now, damn him, she entered the reception room, her tennis shoes squeaking on the tile floor.
She took in the beautiful fireplace, the lovely but starting to crumble brick archways leading from room to room, the soft chenille fabrics covering some of the furniture—which she knew needed replacing—and felt her heart sigh.
But other than what she could have been doing on the bank of the creek with the man behind her, she had only one thing on her mind: food.
“God, something smells heavenly.”
She wondered if he knew what his low, husky voice did to a woman who was already thinking about sex far too much today. Apparently oblivious, he turned hopefully toward the hallway from which came an admittedly delicious scent.
Thank you, Rosa. Just as she thought it, the tall, curvy, dark-skinned woman appeared, wearing a multilayered skirt and matching bright, floral blouse snug to her full figure.
Her jet-black hair—carefully dyed every month to cover the gray—was, as always, piled on top of her head.
Her birth certificate said she was fifty-five, but Rosa scoffed at that, preferring instead to be thirty-nine.
She had an incredibly large family, all of whom had migrated out of San Robledo to Encinitas, California, years ago.
Rosa spent every winter there with them, and as a result was fluent in English, though she still swore only in her native tongue—and often.
Her greatest joy was bossing everyone around her, twisting them around her finger.
That, combined with her gift of getting people to do whatever she wanted, made Rosa the powerhouse of San Robledo.
Lyndie didn’t know how it worked exactly, but even she jumped when Rosa said to do so. She hadn’t grown up with a mother figure, or even a grandmother figure, and yet somehow Rosa and her loving, unbendable demands were law.
“You.” Rosa smiled, grabbed Lyndie’s face, and kissed each cheek as she spoke in flawless but heavily accented English. “You stayed. If I was older than my thirty-nine years, you would be the daughter of my heart. Now get out of my sight and shower, you are filthy. I will have food waiting.”
Lyndie’s mouth started to water at the thought. “I have to eat first.”
“Wait,” Griffin said. “You have a shower here?”
With a wince, Lyndie turned to face him. Oddly enough, he looked more amused than mad, and also…challenging, and she realized that when it came to getting the best of this man, she just might have bitten off more than she could chew.
“Of course we have a shower.” Rosa turned to Griffin.
“You are our hero, sí? You, I have to hug and kiss.” Never stingy when it came to affection, she grabbed his face as she had Lyndie’s, and noisily kissed both cheeks, chirping at him the entire time, telling him how happy she was to meet him, how grateful that he’d come, how much she looked forward to fattening up his skinny butt—
Suddenly she went still. She sniffed at him and then put her hands on her hips. “Why does this boy smell like my Tallulah’s soap?”