Page 47

Chapter Forty-Seven

W hit chuckled under his breath as he pulled his shirt off over his head. He was still a little surprised Clover had joined in on his offering to the ancestors earlier that night.

As he shrugged into his pajama shirt, he wondered how long it would be before he knew her well enough not to be surprised by her unexpected behaviors.

Before he could fasten the first button on his shirt, he heard a gentle knock on the door that led to the bathroom.

“Whit?” Clover called from the other side.

“Yeah?” he asked.

Without warning, she entered the room, skidding to a halt—her eyes wide—when she saw him only mostly dressed.

“Sorry,” she murmured though she didn’t look away from his bare chest. “I should have waited for an invitation.”

He made quick work of buttoning his shirt, trying to ignore how her gaze lingered as his fingers began to tingle. “Do you need something?”

She shook herself and smiled up at him. “Yes, I just finished Crane’s sweater, and I’m looking to start another project. I was wondering if you’d like one, too?”

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all! I’d like to do it. I make them for all my family members.”

Whit’s heart swelled at the word, and he dropped his head in a nod. “All right, then. Thank you.” He couldn’t fight the smile that spread on his face. He looked forward to wearing something Clover had made just for him with her own two hands.

“Great.” Clover closed the distance between them with a purposeful step. “Stand straight with your arms at your sides, please.”

Whit blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Clover laughed. “I have to measure you to know what size to make.” She held up a rolled fabric tape measurer for emphasis.

“Oh, right.” Whit did as she requested.

“Do you normally wear an undershirt when you wear sweaters?” she asked, moving to his side and putting her thumb over the end of the tape at the top of his shoulder.

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Then I should be able to measure like this.”

A shiver ran through him as the cold tape touched his bare arm below where his shirt sleeve ended.

“Do you have a color preference? What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

Clover snorted. “Really?” she asked flatly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem? Black is slimming.”

Clover stepped in front of him, meeting his eyes. “Is that something you’re worried about?”

Whit shrugged, a little self-conscious that she asked so directly.

Her answering smile was warm and reassuring. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that just yet. You look great. Put your elbows out, please.”

His face heated at her easy compliment while he lifted his arms.

Reaching around, her arms encircled him as she slipped the tape behind his back. He stiffened. He could feel the warmth of her body close to his. Her freshly washed hair smelled of coconut and cream, and he breathed deep the intoxicating scent.

“One more,” she said, completely unaware of the turn his mind had taken.

Moving to the side, Clover placed the end of the tape under his arm and slid it down his side.

Whit flinched, trembling as an involuntary snicker escaped him. When Clover paused, he glanced over to find her grinning.

“Are you ticklish?” she asked, too much mischief in her tone.

He shook his head though the smile he was fighting made the gesture rather unconvincing.

“Oh,” she said lightly. “So then”—she wriggled her fingers on his side—“ this doesn’t tickle?”

He bit his lip to silence his laugh as he swerved out of her reach.

For a tense moment, they stared at each other like a showdown in a Western—her grinning with intent and him tensed to run.

“Don’t do it,” he said in a warning tone.

She tilted her head. “Do what?”

“You know what. Don’t.”

“But I thought you weren’t ticklish?”

“I’m not,” he insisted.

She sprang at him, and he only barely evaded her by putting the bed between them. The chase that ensued gave no merit to the fact that they were both adults. Chairs were toppled, pillows were thrown—all as Clover giggled with delight.

But when Clover hopped onto the bed to launch herself at him, she lost her balance. Whit reached out and steadied her before she could fall.

“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “That’s enough. Come down now before you get hurt.”

A little shaken by her near miss, she nodded and sat before him on the edge of the bed. Patting the bed beside her, she urged, “Sit down. I promise I won’t tickle you.”

Whit eyed her suspiciously but decided she was trustworthy before he sat beside her.

Clover leaned her head against the side of his arm, the weight warm and comfortable.

“That was fun,” she said.

“If you say so,” he grumbled.

She glanced up at him. “You have something on your face,” she told him.

He wiped his face with his palm.

Laughing, she shook her head and popped up on her knees to face him. “I’ll get it.”

Then, leaning in close, she pressed her lips to his cheek.

His heart jumped as his stomach fluttered. And when he turned toward her, all trace of her mischievous grin was gone.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, which were parted in a clear question.

Whit met her gaze, his heart pumping desire to all his extremities. She was so close to him, her lips only inches from his. He could hear her uneven breathing; her alluring scent was all he could smell. He knew she would taste as good as she looked—that she would feel even better than he could imagine.

Her eyelashes fluttered slowly over her blue eyes. He held his breath as she leaned toward him again.

When her lips brushed against his, she yanked on something inside him, straining the chain that leashed his desire for her.

She seemed to have no such restraint.

The moment her lips met his, she doubled down—deepening their kiss with a low sound that beckoned something primal within him.

His head swam, dizzy and drowning in the sensation of her. He wanted this. He wanted this and much more.

But when he felt the weight of her hand rest on his thigh, the shock of reality slammed into him.

“It’s late,” he whispered, pulling away from her slightly.

She smiled a knowing, heated smile. “It is,” she murmured before kissing him gently on the cheek again.

He tried to swallow, tried to order his words into what he needed to say. “We should go to bed.”

“I agree.” Her trail of kisses reached his throat.

With every touch of her lips on his skin, the tether on his rational mind snapped a thread.

This was his last chance. He had to make her understand, or he would do something he’d regret—something he could not take back.

“In our own rooms,” he breathed.

She stopped immediately, pulling away from him as if he’d stung her. She stared at his face.

With a little distance between them, he could breathe, and the oxygen to his brain made the situation clear to him. With every passing heartbeat with her eyes watching him, he felt more and more uncomfortable.

He avoided her gaze to relieve the feeling, but he still saw the frown that marred her expression.

Finally, she sniffed hard through her nose and got to her feet. Her bare heels thumped on the floor while she made her way to the bathroom door.

“Goodnight,” he said, his hushed tone drowned out by the door she slammed.