The Lemon Sisters (Wildstone #3)(56)

“Mew, mew, mew!”

Okay, she knew those grumpy voices.

“Give it a rest, ladies.”

She knew that raspy voice, too, and it washed over her in the early-morning light. As did the realization that she’d spent the entire night with Garrett.

“I’ll feed you all in a minute,” he said, presumably to the cats.

Brooke sat up. At the movement, the cats glared at her. Ali McClaw and Chairwoman Miao were at their feet, Princess Jasmine on Garrett’s chest, staking her claim.

Brooke apparently had done the same, because she was snuggled up to his side, a leg thrown over him like mine. “Damn.” Her voice was more than a little ragged around the edges as well. “It’s morning?”

He came up on an elbow, dislodging the princess, who shifted to the end of the bed with a pissy expression. The man didn’t have any such look. His face was pure sated, sexy male. The sheet had slipped low, exposing him to just below his hip bones, and she felt her mouth water.

“How did we get here?” she asked.

His expression changed. “I drove us home from the bar parking lot. You wanted to come in with me.” He paused. “Please tell me you remember that.”

Oh, she did. She’d led him out of the truck and into his house, where they’d spent the next few hours rediscovering their insatiable passion for each other. They’d done it on his kitchen counter, in his shower, and finally in his bed, all to their extremely mutual satisfaction. “I remember,” she said, not exactly thrilled with having to admit it out loud. “I meant, how did we get here . . . metaphorically?”

Princess Jasmine hunkered down with a butt wriggle and then took a flying leap, destination: Garrett’s lap. Catching her in midair, he tossed her gently over the side of the bed. But the other two cats held their positions like five-star generals, and he shook his head at them. “We’ve talked about this. The bed’s off-limits.”

“Wow,” Brooke said to him. “Way to be tough.” She waved a hand in their direction. “Shoo.”

Neither of the cats budged, though they both narrowed their eyes. One growled low in her throat.

“Rude,” she said, but she sort of got it. Garrett was theirs, and they didn’t want to share. She could easily adopt the philosophy if she let herself. Instead, she slipped out of the bed and looked for her clothes. Her undies were MIA, so still wearing only his shirt, she bent for her shorts and apparently flashed him, because she heard a very male sound of approval.

“Commando,” Garrett said approvingly. “I like it.”

“Yes, well, you like pretty much everything, so . . .” She buttoned the shorts and then found her bra. Still wet. Her top wasn’t much better, so she left them both where they were and kept Garrett’s shirt on, hugging herself, hoping he wasn’t going to make this into a big thing.

His eyes were heavy-lidded and heated as he crooked a finger at her. “Come back to bed.”

Hell no. In the light of day, he’d be able to look deep into her eyes, and she wasn’t sure she could continue to hide in plain sight now that they’d decimated each other so thoroughly.

“Nervous?” he asked.

More like turned on beyond belief. “I don’t do nervous.” She flashed a quick smile that she hoped he bought. “So . . . thanks for the ride last night. And . . .” She grimaced. “For, you know, what came after that.”

“You mean you?” he asked with a tinge of amusement.

Rolling her eyes at the both of them, she headed to the door.

“Brooke—”

“No.” Knowing what he was about to say, she shook her head. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

Garrett blew out a breath, like maybe he agreed with her, but here was the thing about Garrett and how the two of them differed at their very cores: If she wanted to not think about something, she did just that. She could ignore anything, even if it was right in front of her face, if she wanted to badly enough. But Garrett wasn’t wired like her. If something bothered him, he got it out. And if that something required action, well, then he’d act. He was about doing the right thing, even if the right thing was also the hard thing. Especially if it was the hard thing.

He caught her at his bedroom door and pulled her around to look at him. He was still naked. Gloriously so, and apparently without a self-conscious bone in his body, although a certain “bone” did nudge her belly good morning. She sucked in a breath.

“Ignore that.” He looked deep into her eyes.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I guess I’m just looking for some sort of sign that not acknowledging our past or what we were to each other—or where we’re at now—bothers you or hurts you.”

“And?”

“And . . .” He studied her, his eyes hooded. “I’m getting nothing. Not only is your head hard as rock, but so is your damn heart.”

“And on that note,” she said lightly while feeling anything but. “I’ve gotta go.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“Not necessary. Seriously,” she said when he pulled on a pair of jeans and looked around for his shirt before realizing she was in it. “I don’t need you to walk me across the damn yard.”