Chapter Ten #3
No point in examining what-might-have-beens.
His mother and he had paid the ultimate price.
Now he had to decide the path forward. Research the Telfords and approach them?
Cash had mentioned a DNA test. He could do that.
Make it official. He had a lot to protect too.
Restless, he noted a pile of dark blue fabric on the coffee table that hadn’t been there before.
He reached for it, only noting the still-attached hook thing and ball of yarn.
Carefully, he spread it across the table, not wanting to damage her project.
He didn’t understand how knitting or whatever the other thing she mentioned today worked.
The fabric was soft and dark with various stars lining one side in white with a larger, silver star glimmering in the middle.
A baby blanket?
Unsettled, he dropped to the floor and began doing a variety of push-ups as if he could sweat out and push away the image of a naked, gleaming Ayana on the other side of the door, maybe or maybe not longing for a baby at some point.
*
She took out her earbuds and stood up, draining the water.
She’d practically fallen asleep in the tub.
It had been a total luxury, one she’d only experienced at the hotel in Denver, and as she reached for a towel, she vowed she’d take a long, deep soak in the tub every day they were at the Graff Hotel.
That would be her memory of indulgent luxury she’d tuck away—after all, she’d grown up without running water, bathing every few days with Alissa in glacier-fed water collected in livestock trough.
She glanced at her phone. Telford had been gone a long time.
Should she worry? How long should she wait before calling the police?
She shrank from that idea. The Family had been off the grid, avoiding anything having to do with the government.
She still didn’t trust authority figures—especially those who cloaked themselves in their convenient Lord’s words that had deviated miles from the real Bible she’d read out of curiosity a few years ago when she’d been sick in bed and bored out of her mind on the cruise ship.
Wrapping the towel around herself, she flung open the door to return to the room. The sound she made sounded feral.
“Apologies.” Telford popped to his feet all taut, bronzed skin that looked airbrushed. No shirt. Just thin, athletic shorts. Bare feet and abs she could count.
“For what?” She could barely choke out the words.
“I should have controlled myself better.”
She stared at him, trying to make the words make sense.
“I needed to sort some things out.”
“Thought that was why I was here.” The words were out before she thought them through, and she held out a hand like a stop sign, though it was too late.
The towel swished down and she grabbed it up and pressed it against her chest. Telford was rich.
Hot. He’d probably had women who looked like supermodels and had a plastic surgeon and designer on speed dial.
She’d always liked her small breasts and made the most of them—usually eschewing a bra, but she knew men fantasized about more than a handful.
“Forget I said that. You have a right to privacy and to get sweaty alone.”
She closed her eyes. Yup. Somehow she’d said that.
“Ayana,” he said softly and she felt him take a step closer—for real the air around her crackled and parted like she’d been in a bubble he’d unzipped by his supremely masculine presence.
She clung to the towel, despairing that she was acting like some Regency virginal debutante when she was anything but.
“I value your opinion, and I want to discuss the new … let’s call it a development with you. By leaving, I slipped into bad habits. I want to have better ways to socially cope and not get overwhelmed and run away—literally.”
She gaped at him before remembering to finally close her mouth. A man admitting a flaw? Apologizing? It wasn’t done in the Family, but she’d also come of age in diners and restaurants, eking out a living, and the customer was always right.
“You cope just fine,” she whispered still staring at his body that could be hers for six months or a year. She just needed to take a step forward. Maybe two.
And then what?
Could she really walk away from all that glorious masculinity? She already felt connected to him emotionally. Physically would add to the danger of succumbing to a connection, giving up her freedom.
She took a step back.
“Sorry. I’m sweaty,” he said quietly. “Have you eaten?”
He actually smelled like something she wanted to taste. Hunger clawed in her belly—sexual and for food. “I waited for you.”
“I’ll take a quick shower, and we’ll order room service … unless you want to go out.”
“Stay in.”
“And we’ll debrief.”
The word sounded funny in a hotel room when she was naked and he was about to be, but technically she was his employee. And his wife.
“Yes.” She nodded, trying to get her cool back and not be a drooling, hormonal female.
“Ayana?”
“Yes?” Was this the new her? Agreeable? One-syllable answers?
“Thank you. And at the risk of being unbearably crude, your ass is as gorgeous as the rest of you.”
He strode past her and she swung around realizing that there was a large, antique mirror in the bathroom, so while she’d clung to the towel thinking herself covered, he’d seen her very naked backside.
An embarrassed and amused laugh burbled out of her. She was getting in deep and she was still standing in the shallow end.
“Future me problem.”