Lynnette Kent - A Husband In Wyoming

“Yes, please.” She drifted along the display tables while he brewed two cups. “Heavy cream and two sugars, please.”

“I like mine sweet, too.” He brought her a mug. “Is your room not comfortable?”

“Oh, no, it’s great. Flying just disrupts my internal clock.”

“I remember. Eventually you stop being able to tell what time it should be.” They were standing by a bighorn ram he’d finished a few months ago. “I haven’t missed that, the last couple of years.”

“You don’t enjoy traveling?”

“I enjoy visiting new places. My preference would be staying somewhere for a month—or six—and really getting to know the people and the environment. I’m not into ‘if it’s Tuesday this must be Rome.’”

Jess eyed him over the rim of her cup. “Not just four days?”

“You won’t know everything about this place in four days or four months or years.” He didn’t mean it as a challenge.

But she heard one. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

So they were adversaries again. Dylan didn’t intend to argue with her about who would win. “Anyway, make yourself comfortable—not that there are many decent chairs to sit in around here. I’m going to get to work.”

“Thanks. Just pretend I’m not here. I don’t want to disturb your process.”

Yeah, right. Dylan lost count of how many mistakes he made in the next hour as he tried to concentrate with Jess Granger in the room. She’d rolled his desk chair out from behind the staircase and over to where he was working. He couldn’t argue that she’d picked the most comfortable seat available. The problem was the way she curled her body into its leather embrace, knees drawn up and ankles crossed, looking all warm and cozy. That blue sweater didn’t reach much below the hem of the boxer shorts, so there was a long length of leg left to view, if he happened to glance over.

Which he did, too often. And each time he found Jess’s gaze intent on his hands. She didn’t say anything, but he was constantly aware of her presence.

Eventually, though, the spirit of the piece drew him in. Dylan found his focus, fingering through the collection of wood on the table for the next element, making adjustments, setting the fragment just right. He worked until his neck began to ache, until his back stiffened and his fingers fumbled, until his eyes burned.

“Enough,” he said, capping the glue and pushing away from the table. “I give in.”

A single glance at Jess revealed she’d surrendered before him. Arms folded, eyes closed, she’d slipped down in the chair to rest her cheek on the padded arm. She was deeply asleep.

In his studio. At 3:45 a.m. What was he supposed to do about it?

He should wake her, walk her to the house and send her to bed in the guest room while he returned here. And how painful would that be, for both of them? There was a reason he’d built the bedroom loft. All he wanted at this moment was to drop onto the bed and pass out.

He could leave her in the chair to sleep, even if she might not be able to straighten up for the next three days. That would teach her a lesson, though he was too tired to figure out about what.

Or...there was a king-size bed upstairs, a place to get some real rest without taking a predawn walk through damp grass.

Dylan rubbed his eyes and then put a hand on Jess’s shoulder. “Hey, you. Bedtime.”

Her eyes slowly opened to show him the bleary, confused expression of the very tired. “Huh?”

“Let’s go.” He took her hand and pulled.

She sat up with the coordination of a rag doll. “I don’t understand.” Her eyelids drooped.

“I’m tired. We’re going to bed.”

He’d carried her halfway up the steps before his last statement fully penetrated. Jess came awake, twisting in his arms. “No. We can’t.”

“Yes. We can.” He took a tighter grip under her soft, bare knees and her arms, driving himself to the top of the staircase. Keeping hold, he walked over to the side of the bed and set her on her feet. “Crawl in.”

“No.” This protest was weaker. When he pulled down the covers, she gazed at the pillow with longing.

Dylan was about to collapse himself. Palms on her shoulders, he sat her down, slipped her sneakers off and tucked her feet under the sheet before pushing her backward. “Sleep.”

Before he made it around to the other side, she had rolled onto her stomach and burrowed into the pillow.

He scowled at all those curls flowing across his dark blue sheets. “Make yourself at home.”

Then he grabbed the blanket folded at the bottom of the mattress and flung it over himself as he sat down in the recliner by the window. He’d spent many a night snoring at the television from this spot, and it was usually only a matter of minutes until he called the day done.

This was, however, the first time he’d ever done so with a woman in his bed.

Somehow, his favorite chair just didn’t feel so comfortable tonight.

* * *

OH. MY. GOD .

Jess didn’t even have to sit up to realize where she was. From where she lay on her side, she could see the railing of the loft in Dylan’s studio, as well as the top of the staircase. In such a comfortable position, she could be only one place.

His bed.

She couldn’t recall how she got here. Her memory pretty much blanked out around two thirty, when she’d checked her watch while Dylan pursued his meticulous work at the table. Another cup of coffee had kept her awake for a little while but not, apparently, long enough.

Not remembering how she got up here meant she didn’t remember what had happened after she got here. She seemed to have her clothes on, which was reassuring, if not conclusive. No one’s arms were wrapped around her. Or hers around them. Also comforting.

If she turned over, would she be staring into his face? Gazing into those dark chocolate eyes with their teasing glint? Was he under the same sheet—was the warmth she savored the result of sharing a small, dark, intimate space with him?

Jess didn’t consider herself a coward. She’d lived in bad neighborhoods, attended schools where violence was a daily event, bruised her knuckles on other girls’ jawbones. But the possibility of confronting Dylan Marshall on the other side of the bed seemed only slightly less risky than leaping over the loft rail to the floor below.

Then she realized she could swing her legs out of bed, stand up and at least be on her feet when she confronted him. Big improvement.

When she spun around, though, she found the worst of her fears unfounded. The other side of the giant bed lay undisturbed, the covers still pulled over most of the pillow. She’d slept alone.

Blowing out a relieved breath, she ignored the regret lurking in her mind. She reminded herself that spending the night—actually having sex—with the subject of her interview violated her standards of professional behavior. Of course, she’d never been tempted before, but that didn’t matter. Rules were rules.

All she could see of Dylan, in fact, was a single sock-covered foot sticking out from underneath a blanket draped over what appeared to be a recliner facing the television. Talk about standards—he’d let her have the bed all by herself, even though there was plenty of room for two people to lie down and never touch. She didn’t know many guys with that kind of personal code—these days, everyone seemed to be looking out for their own good at the expense of everyone else.

And why not? Who takes care of you if you don’t?

Dylan would , the treacherous part of her whispered. She ignored it. She had to.

Carrying her shoes, Jess hurried quietly down the stairs, resisting the impulse to stop and make a cup of coffee. She glanced at her watch as she pulled on her sneakers and slipped out the blue door. Five fifteen. The sun had yet to rise into the sky, but there was plenty of light, a sort of golden glow that promised a beautiful day. Soft breezes rustled the tree leaves, and she could hear birds. Real birds, not just pigeons clucking on the sidewalk. Her sneakers and her ankles got damp as she brushed through the grass—when had she last experienced dew? How long since she’d walked on anything but a sidewalk?