Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“You know, I have some training in massage therapy,” Lily said later that evening. She tried to sound more casual than she felt. “That looks like it hurts.”
She held her breath and waited for Rush to answer.
They had dinner earlier—more canned soup. Then she’d taken an unpleasantly cold shower, secretly hoping Rush would join her.
He didn’t, of course.
Instead, he’d waited until she was finished then strode into the bathroom with his towel and a fresh change of clothes, depriving her of a glimpse of him in a towel.
When he emerged a while later, dressed in a soft pair of gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a fitted cream-colored Henley that stretched across his broad chest, she felt robbed.
He tugged his ever-present baseball cap low, shading his eyes from her.
They had settled into the evening like an old married couple in front of the fire, which crackled in the stove, filling the cabin with a steady, calm warmth. Outside, the wind still howled against the windows, rattling the glass like it wanted in, but the cabin felt snug and warm and very quiet.
Too quiet. Lily stretched out on the couch, her foot swinging with nervous energy over the edge, and quit pretending to read.
The book couldn’t hold her interest with the biggest distraction of her life—Rush Callahan—across from her in the chair by the fire, gazing into the flames.
Her mind kept drifting to the storm outside, the warmth of the fire, the man across from her… and the feeling of him on top of her.
Rush’s expression was unreadable while he watched the fire, but every so often, he rubbed absently at his thigh. She tried not to watch. Really tried, but her eyes had a mind of their own, and they were drawn to him like a magnet, and she had finally worked up the nerve to ask him about it.
Rush’s hands tightened around his glass at her question.
He had long fingers, the backs sprinkled with dark, curly hair—masculine and strong, even with the bruising and cuts.
Those rough hands had slid so gently across her cheek to wipe away the snow.
She dragged her eyes away to find him taking a slow sip of whiskey, and she watched his strong throat work as he swallowed.
“I’m fine,” he said finally. There was a warning in his voice that she didn’t acknowledge.
“You’ve been rubbing your thigh for the last half hour. Did you hurt it again earlier?” Perhaps chopping wood or maybe when you guided me onto my back in the snow and came down on top of me.
He didn’t answer right away, so she pushed forward before she could overthink it. When else would she have this moment?
Brave Lily. Real Lily.
“Here, let me.” She stepped between his knees, acting on instinct, until her nerves caught up with her and she hesitated.
Riggs lifted his head when she took another step closer, and he growled a warning.
She edged back. “I thought we came to a truce,” she muttered, peeved that their bonding moment hadn’t lasted.
“Quiet,” Rush commanded the dog. “He still thinks he’s the boss of you.”
“He’s not the boss of me.”
The corner of Rush’s mouth curved crookedly. It did something to her insides. “I’d say you’re wrong about that, angel.”
Angel. She let the nickname slide, even though the sound of it sent a warm rush through her, and met his eyes squarely for permission.
Rush nodded slowly, and she sank to her knees between his thighs. His eyes were hidden, but she felt his reaction throughout his body. His thigh muscles bunched and flexed, and his free hand gripped the arm of the chair. She felt that deep inside.
Lily swallowed, her pulse hammering so hard she was sure he could see it, and reached for him. Her fingers brushed over the thin cotton that clung to his thighs, feeling the heat of him radiating through the material.
She pulled back and rubbed her hands together, glancing up shyly. “My hands are cold, but they’ll warm up fast.” She rested them lightly on top of his knees.
Rush went completely still. Then, with a slow nod, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
Her fingertips drifted higher, brushing over firm muscle.
She lingered over the strong curves and ridges of his thighs, feeling the strength there.
Her hand grazed higher, gliding over the ridge of scar tissue she’d glimpsed in the shower.
Carefully, she traced the uneven texture, feeling the raised lines and ripples.
A sharp current of sadness filled her. She sensed that this was a piece of him he probably didn’t talk about, yet he was allowing her to help ease his pain. It felt intimate in a way she wasn’t used to, a peek under the armor of Sheriff Rush Callahan she wasn’t entirely sure how to handle.
“From the accident?” she asked quietly, eyes lowered. She hadn’t meant to bring it up, but the question slipped out as her fingers worked gently over the scarred muscle in his thigh.
Rush didn’t answer. He went still in that quiet, locked-down way she was beginning to recognize, and took a long sip of whiskey.
She kept her hands steady, her strokes long and firm and careful around the damaged tissue.
Her training took over. Focus on the body.
Listen to what’s unspoken. She didn’t need words to understand the tension locked deep inside him.
After a moment, he shifted slightly in the chair and let his legs fall open wider. His silence wasn’t permission, but it wasn’t refusal either.
So she kept going.
“Is that why you were heading up here?” she asked. “Because Caroline Whitmore’s memorial is this week?”
The tensing of his thigh told her exactly what he thought about her questions.
Rush’s eyes opened, and he looked down at her silently, his face stern. A warning, if she chose to take it.
She met his gaze steadily.
He took another slow sip of whiskey, and briefly, so briefly she would have missed it had she not been kneeling before him, his expression cracked. But Lily caught it, and her heart ached at what she saw there. Grief. Pain. The weight of that night crushing him.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said, staring into the fire.
“Because I know the Whitmores, and I know they want to thank you—”
“No.” He caught her wrist in one hand, tugging her off-balance until she leaned into his body. They were so close their breaths mingled, and his eyes, dark, flinty steel, held hers. “Don’t,” he said with enough finality that she found herself speechless.
Rush let go of her hand, stroking the bones along her wrist like a silent apology. He looked hard and closed off, and she got the message loud and clear: no more questions.
She pressed her fingers deeper into his muscle, smoothing her palm over the scar one last time.
Rush leaned back in the chair, imposing even while relaxing—all dark stubble and broad shoulders, long legs stretched out, taking up the surrounding space.
The firelight cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the rough edges and the quiet power he held so effortlessly.
A slow, electric shiver rolled through her, unfurling down her spine as she kneeled before his spread thighs. The heat in her chest spread lower, pooling deep and unfamiliar in its intensity. The air between them crackled with something she’d never felt so strongly. Desire.
She wanted him. The rough scrape of his hands, the weight of his body—she craved all of it. The kind of heat that stole reason and left only need.
Unsmiling, his hand caught hers and held it for a moment. “That feels better. Thank you.”
She nodded, slipping her hand from his and rising to her feet. Her gaze locked on a deck of cards on the table from earlier. She latched onto the distraction eagerly.
“Do you know how to play poker?”
Rush raised a brow, watching Lily lean forward to expertly shuffle the deck, her delicate fingers making quick work of the cards. Damn, she’s cute when she’s trying to be badass.
“Do you?”
She raised her chin, all sexy confidence.
All bravado. But he knew better now. He’d picked up on the flicker of nerves in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking, and the way she hesitated half a second before speaking.
Then there was the way she played with the pink stone around her neck, rolling it between her fingers like a habit she wasn’t aware of.
But she didn’t want him to know she was nervous. That was what made it cute as hell.
His gaze drifted downward, lingering over the soft curves hidden beneath the borrowed clothing.
Another of his flannel shirts swallowed her slight frame, hanging almost to her knees, and his running pants rolled at her waist a few times.
The soft fabrics highlighted the curves of her hips and the gentle sway of her breasts under his shirt, making him remember the lush, full shape of them in the shower.
Was she wearing anything under his shirt now?
“Of course I do. Didn’t they teach you that in the army?”
“Marines,” he corrected.
Lily gasped, all faux innocence, then flashed him a wicked, sparkling grin that did dangerous things to his self-control. “Oorah, soldier.”
She had no idea what she was doing to him.
She’d rolled the sleeves up haphazardly, revealing her pale skin and delicate wrists, and the top few buttons were undone, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of deep, deep cleavage whenever she leaned over to deal him a card, answering his unspoken question.
Nothing. She wasn’t wearing anything under his flannel.
Ah, hell. It was going to be a long night.
“Well, it’s time for me to kick your ass, Sheriff,” she said, tapping the deck confidently. “I learned from the very best.”
He took the bait, shifting to relieve the growing pressure against his zipper.
“From Tucker?” he asked. That asshole. He didn’t know exactly what Lily had run from, but he had a solid enough idea, and his opinion of the guy, already low, sank even further.