Page 49 of Igniting Sparks

I trudge over and perch on the edge of the bed, watching him expectantly. “What?”

My only ask, God, is that he doesn’t bring up the garden incident, because I do not want to rehash that personal nightmare.

“You look better without all the makeup,” Braden says, dragging a finger along my cheek. “Not that you didn’t look good earlier, but this is more you.”

“You mean I look like I’m twelve, complete with elephant-llama pajamas, no makeup, and a ponytail?”

Braden shakes his head, his brow furrowing. “Trust me, I donotthink you look twelve. At all. You’re naturally beautiful.”

I fidget with the edge of a throw pillow, unsure how to respond. Yes, I’ve been called beautiful before. Many times. But with Braden, it’s different because I want him to see me—allof me—and still think that.

It didn’t work out too well the last time. Hence the ridiculous pajamas.

I don’t actually own lingerie. Never needed it before, and at this rate, I probably never will.

After a few beats, Braden stands and grabs his bag, heading for the recently vacated bathroom.

“There’s a bit of whiskey left if you’d like to finish it.”

“Thanks.”

Once again, he recognizes the anxiety creeping into my aura and snuffs it out without ever directly addressing it.

I grab the glass and take a swallow, my eyes darting to every corner of the room before landing on the bed.

What to do. What to do.

Then I notice the pile of throw pillows strewn across the mattress.

This might work.

If I can’t put up emotional walls, at least I can build a physical one.

Braden walks out of the bathroom ten minutes later and regards my handiwork with a smirk. “What in the world are you doing? What’s with the pillow wall?”

I tuck a final pillow in by the foot of the bed and shrug. “This way you have your side, and I have mine.”

It’s then I notice his attire—or lack thereof.

“You’re naked.”

Braden glances down at his body and points to his boxers. “Not quite.”

But close enough.

Holy hell.

The man issobeautiful up close. I mean, I’ve seen him shirtless before, but now it’s the full picture—and it’s lethal. Broad chest dusted with hair, ink sprawling across his torso and down his arms, muscles for days, and a sharp V disappearing beneath the waistband of those black boxer briefs.

He is sex personified, and I, in my fluffy llama pajamas, am the antithesis.

And the effect he’s having on my body is impossible to ignore. Once again, I feel like a Southern belle, ready to swoon at his feet.

Inllama pajamas.

Braden flicks one pillow and shoots me a side-eye. “Do you kick all night long or something? Will I require this as armor?”

I shake my head and take another drink of whiskey. “No, I’m a great sleeping partner.”