Page 24 of Mountain Grump Protector

I shrug, and keep my gaze focused on the dog as Willow runs through a series of commands. To my surprise, Murph proceeds to shake a paw, roll over, and sit once more before she tosses the ball, sending him racing across the yard to retrieve it.

“I’m impressed,” I say honestly while we wait for the dog to come back.

“He’s a good boy.” Her voice softens, and I make the mistake of risking a glance in her direction.

She’s wearing an old pair of my sweats, cut off into tiny shorts, and rolled up at the waist to make them fit a bit better, along with one of my black t-shirts tied in a knot above her hip. The sleeve slips down, leaving her shoulder bare.

She makes the oversized clothes look sinfully sexy.

Her long, red hair is piled into a messy knot on the top of her head, and there’s dirt smudged across one cheek, no doubt left there by Murph. The irrational wave of jealousy I feel for my dog and how close he’s been able to get to Willow hits me hard.

She looks entirely too comfortable here.

And the problem is, I’m getting pretty comfortable having her here, too.

Behind me, music plays from the radio Willow dug out of a cupboard because she claimed it was too quiet to think, and working in silence was like something out of a serial killer documentary. I still don’t understand what that means, but I’ve grown used to the music, the same way I’ve grown used to everything else when it comes to her.

I have to remind myself that this is all temporary.

The second Hatch gets the rest of his money, Willow won’t have a reason to stay here anymore.

I should probably be relieved by the thought. But instead, something low and sharp twists in my gut every time I let the thought cross my mind.

“You’re staring,” Willow says.

I blink and realize she’s standing a lot closer now. Murph has once more taken off with the ball.

“I was thinking.”

“About me?”

There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

She doesn’t bother trying to hide the surprise on her face. “Are you going to tell me what exactly you’re thinking about me?”

It’s a dangerous question. I should lie.

My gaze drifts lazily over her before I can stop it.

“Just that those shorts are a problem?”

“The shorts?” She cocks an eyebrow. “They’re yours.”

“Not anymore, darling. They are most definitely yours.” And I’m never going to be able to look at a pair of old sweats without thinking of her long, lean legs.

Her breath catches.

Good. Maybe I’m not the only one struggling here.

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth before she bites it back, and dammit if that doesn’t send a shot of fire through me, straight to my cock.

The tension between us has been building for days. Every glance. Every accidental touch. Every moment in the kitchen late at night when she pads in barefoot wearing one of my shirts that barely covers her ass and asks if I ever sleep.

Truthfully, I haven’t slept a damn since she arrived. And not only because of Hatch, but because I’m very, very aware of her in my bed only a few feet away, with little more than a locked door separating us.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her: that sexy body splayed out on my sheets, red hair spread over my pillows, her scent soaked into every inch of a quilt I’ll never lie under again without picturing exactly how those soft curves would feel under my hands as I drive my cock into her heat.

Fuck. Me.