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“Let’s talk weapons first.” Mitch rubbed his jaw. “Where are you planning to carry yours?”
She held up her hobo purse.
“No way.” He crossed his arms and looked down at her.
“Why not?”
“That’ll be the first place someone will look. Try your jeans.”
“You’re probably right.” She dropped her handbag back on the bed.
That sexy eyebrow rose. As if Mitch wanted to get into her pants along with the gun. “I know I’m right.”
He would think that. She tried pushing her small automatic into a front pocket, but the handle stuck out. “I’m assuming we want to keep the guns concealed.”
“That would be best.”
She stared at the pile of clothes on the bookcase. “I don’t have any jeans with big pockets. No one makes women’s jeans with big pockets. Do I really need to carry my pistol?”
Mitch propped his hands on his hips, exuding male hotness without any apparent awareness of his X-rated qualities. “You need your own protection in case I can’t come to your aid.”
Oh yeah? Her stomach walked to the edge of an abyss and looked down. “I thought you were coming along to protect me.”
“I am, but you never know what will happen. We need to prepare for all contingencies.” Mitch studied her and again his gaze left footprints. “You got a belt?”
She tucked in her tee. “Black belt? Brown? Like in judo?”
“The kind that holds up pants.”
“Nope.”
Mitch pulled a web belt with a military uniform buckle from his dresser along with a small holster. He stripped off the clamp and handed her everything else. “String this through your jeans loops so you can reach your gun with your shooting hand, then come over here. We’ll cut the belt to fit.”
She threaded the holster to hang on her right hip. He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stepped between his knees. “Do I get points for following all your instructions?”
“So far.” He made a come-closer gesture. “Put your hands on my shoulders.”
That would be asking for trouble—especially with the bed so close and her growing lack of self-restraint. He looked up and a corner of his mouth twitched. “We’re past the no-touching issue. Right?”
“Yeah, it’s in the rearview mirror.” She settled her hands on his shoulders and focused on the framed prints of flowers Aunt Edi must have hung. Mitch was so not a garden roses guy.
He cut off the extra webbing and centered the clasp, his knuckles skimming her stomach unintentionally. Heat flooded in all directions. Ignore him. It was an accidental contact.
Mitch’s gaze sought hers and sent her nerves into a skid. Maybe the contact hadn’t been accidental, after all. Don’t let him distract you.
“That should hold the holster in place now.” He folded his pocketknife with one hand and handed her the umpire’s vest.
Cath crossed her arms, propping her chin in her hand. “The smaller one looks a little more my size.”
“This is the best one for you. More stopping power, and I’m not going to woulda-coulda-shoulda if you get shot. Put it on and we’ll adjust the harness.”
This is the best one for you. Yada, yada, yada. She glanced at the thinner vest and stifled a sigh. He’d agreed to come with her. She had to make a show of cooperating. “Is it supposed to come down to my thighs?”
“No.” He fiddled with the shoulder fastenings, his chest a hairbreadth away. His five-o’clock shadow had come out, making him look like a desperado. The scent of dried sweat and shaving cream swirled around her. Being this close to such a vital man would give a weaker woman a heart attack, but hers only skipped beats. Or did a heart attack feel like this?
Finally, he stepped away. “Test that out. Move your arms.”
The vest held her arms away at a forty-five-degree angle. She could also hold them out in front of her, and she stalked across the room like Frankenstein’s monster. “I feel like a panini.”