Chapter 5
Clara
Knox throws a gray zip-up hooded sweatshirt at me and then disappears into the kitchen again.
“Jerk,” I mumble. I’m about to pull the sweater on over my t-shirt, but it’s still damp.
My jeans are even worse. I strip off everything except my black cotton thong and get cozy in his giant gray hoodie.
It’s long enough to be a dress on me, and the fire is making this room so warm that my legs don’t feel cold at all.
I grip the sweater, pull it to my face and take a deep inhale of the scent of fresh laundry, a hint of smoke, pine and something woodsy and manly that I don’t think I’m fully prepared for. Is this what Knox smells like? Does he really smell this fucking good?
I give up on the X-Files. Truth is, even though David Duchovny is a babe, it’s way too scary for me.
I just didn’t want to admit that to Knox, who’s a lot hotter than David Duchovny, anyway.
I go through the channels and eventually land on an old episode of Northern Exposure, one of my favorite old comfort shows.
I take a sip of the coffee that Knox made me, and it’s divine. Possibly the best coffee I’ve ever had.
When my cup is empty, I go in search of more.
“What is this coffee roast?” I ask, entering the kitchen.
“It’s the one you brought with my delivery a couple of weeks ago,” Knox says, his eyes still on the stove where he’s drizzling oil all over a pan of tomatoes and garlic.
Man, the way his large hands drizzle! I have a sudden image of lying naked on his dining table as he drizzles oil over my breasts and then rubs it in.
I clear my throat. “You sure? I have that one at home and it never tastes that good.”
“I guess I’m just better at brewing coffee than you are.”
“Yeah. I guess so,” I say dryly. “Can I have some more, please?”
He looks up from the stove, takes one look at me in nothing but his hoodie, and his eyes smolder, that river water brown turning to burning wood and green fire.
“Where are your clothes?” he scowls.
“They were damp, and I was cold, so I took them off. Thanks for letting me borrow this.” I tug on the bottom of the sweater, and it rises a little, revealing my thigh.
His lips form a hard line. “Dry your own clothes and then put them back on.”
“Wow. Okay. Fine. You got a dryer?”
“In the laundry. Next to the bathroom.”
“Could I have some more coffee first? And maybe a snack? I missed lunch.”
“You think you can just walk around in nothing and demand snacks?”
“I’m watching a comfort show, and I need a snack, and if you were even a half-decent man, you would have given me a snack already and maybe even offered to take care of my damp clothes yourself.”
He scowls again and, fuck, it’s sexy.
“I’m letting you stay here, isn’t that enough?”
I pour a cup of coffee and grab an apple out of the carton on the counter. “Since you hate these apples anyway, I’m taking one.”
“I don’t hate them,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Well, you sure as hell act like you do!”