Edge of Midnight (McClouds & Friends #4)(13)

One crumb of genuine sympathy, and she fell right to pieces.

She covered her face with one hand and fished with the other one in her pocket for tissues. All that was left were wet, soggy wads. Bleah.

She would stay like this forever. A cautionary tale for unwary entrepreneurs. Birds could come to roost on her. She didn’t care.

Sean’s warm hand came to rest tentatively on her shoulder. Awareness sparkled through her nerves at the gentle contact, and the sobbing eased down. Startled into hiding, no doubt. She peeked over her hand. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a tissue? I’m leaking.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was full of regret. “I’m not the kind of guy who carries packs of tissue around.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she mumbled. She couldn’t use her too short, too tight shirt to blot her face without flashing her bare tits to Sean McCloud and the rest of the Endicott Falls business district, but hey, why not offer the gawkers a final act of public indecency to round off the day’s array of entertainments? It was just that kind of a day.

She blinked to bring her vision into focus, and sucked in a bubbly gasp of shock. Holy crap. Sean McCloud was pulling his shirt off. Right out here, in front of God and everyone. Talk about public indecency.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

He stopped partway through the act, the tight microfiber shirt jerked up high enough to show off his thick, broad, muscle-bound chest.

Oh, man. Amazing. The tight brown oblongs of his nipples adorned hard, cut pecs. His fuzz of bronze hair thickened into a treasure trail over his washboard belly, vanishing into jeans that hung low on lean hips. Hard muscles moved beneath the gold skin of his abdomen. A jagged scar gleamed silvery, on his side. She wrenched her gaze away.

“It’s clean,” he said earnestly. “Just out of the dryer. And I took a shower and smeared perfumed goop over myself,” he checked his watch, “just three hours ago. Use it for a handkerchief. Go ahead. Please.”

Oh, yeah. Like he didn’t know just how stunning his body was. Dazzling her to distract her from her sobfest. The humiliating thing was, it was working. “I’m not using your damn shirt for anything.”

“I spent all that time in an air-conditioned car, so I’ve barely sweated.” He whipped the shirt off, and presented it to her. “It’s not worthy of your Divine Highness’s royal snot, but it’s all I’ve got to offer.”

No. She would not laugh, and let him score points at her expense.

“Go on,” he urged. “Just honk right into it. Never let it be said that I’m not willing to sacrifice my shirt for a lady’s convenience.”

He stuck it in her hand. Her fingers closed around it, leaving a greasy black splotch. The shirt was soft and incredibly warm. A spicy, woodsy smell rose from it. Smothered giggles made her nose run even more copiously. “You’re making it worse!” She thrust the shirt against his chest. “Put this thing back on before you get me in trouble.”

He took his own sweet time pulling it back on. Sure enough, he had a black handprint on the front of the T-shirt, as if she’d grabbed his pec and given it a tight squeeze. He looked at it. His smile made her toes curl.

“You’d do anything to make me stop crying, right?” she accused.

“Nope. Tears don’t bother me,” he said. “It’s just that once I get a laugh, I have to follow up and try to get another one. I just can’t help myself. It’s, like, an obsessive-compulsive thing with me.”

“I don’t want to hear about your obsessions or compulsions, thank you. That’s way too much information for me.” She sniffed violently, mopped her face with her hand. “Sorry about your shirt.”

He petted the black mark tenderly with his hand. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m never washing this thing again. I think I’ll frame it.”

Her breath stopped. She stared over the edge of her hand. His eyes looked straight into her mind, sifting through thoughts, memories, fantasies. Drawing his own inscrutable conclusions. His lips curved, as if what he’d seen had given him license to take any liberties he liked.

“The thought of you using power tools is really arousing,” he said.

“I—I cannot believe you just said that to me,” she floundered.

“So put me in my place,” he said. “You’re Her Divine Highness, the Crown Princess of Endicott Falls. Who dares to mess with you?”

Who, indeed. She realized, after it was too late to stop, that she was licking her lips. “You never stay in any place that you’re put.”

He shrugged. “True enough. I can just see you, in my mind’s eye, looking sleek and powerful. Using a table saw. Dominating the hell out of it. Muscles flexing. Sweat dripping. Sawdust flying. Metal screaming.”

“Oh, you are so full of shit,” she said. “Just stop it, right now.”

“Scold me. Show me who’s boss.” His eyes glinted. “I go for that.”

She covered her face again. “You can stop jerking me around any time now,” she forced out, between helpless, hysterical giggles.

“Not yet. I drop to my knees and offer you a cold beer. You tilt the bottle back. A drop slides down, trembles on your collarbone, keeps on sliding. That’s when I fall on my face…and beg for mercy.”