Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(22)

Willa sets her elbows on the table, resting a cheek in her hand. She blinks slowly, looking owlish as she yawns. “So the great outdoors, eh, Brawny—”

I text her immediately. Brawny?

She shrugs. “Like the paper towel stud. Muscles. Flannel. Brawny. So why the wilderness life? Come from an active, outdoorsy family?”

Thankfully my beard hides the blush that crops up at her indirect compliment.

I nod. It’s not a lie, just a partial truth. My family is stereotypically outdoorsy Pacific Northwesterners. I’m just not prepared to share the truth of how my retirement plan became my main career.

Willa yawns again. I glance at the clock to see it’s after eleven already. She has to be exhausted.

“I have to go,” she says sleepily.

I nod in recognition. When she stands, she sways. I lunge around the table, my arm wrapping around her waist to steady her.

Jesus.

I mean, I saw Willa in her kit at the game. I know abstractly that she’s strong and fit, but feeling those washboard abs under her hoodie, the narrow dip of her hips, nearly knocks the wind out of me.

I dig out my phone and text her. It’s late. I’ll walk you home.

“No,” she whines, making sure her face is tipped toward mine, so I can read her lips. “I’m too sleepy.”

A sigh puffs out of me. I type, I’ll give you a piggyback, Sunshine.

She shakes her head. “That’s a bad idea.”

Why? I sign, but she doesn’t answer.

Slowly, she steps out of my grip and wobbles toward the sofa. “I’ll just nap here for a little bit, then I’ll walk home when the sun’s up. Once I’m not so…”

I think the word I miss is tired, which she mumbles as she collapses onto the cushions.

Tugging my hair, I stomp toward her. Before I can text her again, her eyes drift shut. By the time I’m crouching down at the sofa, she’s snoring.

I’m not leaving her out on the sofa for Tucker or Becks to wander out here half-asleep and do something stupid like spoon her. Carefully I scoop her up and carry her into my room. I tuck her into my bed and set her alarm for six thirty, placing her phone on the pillow, near her head. I figure that gives her enough time before the earliest a class runs on campus, which is eight in the morning. Thankfully, I’m fastidiously neat and I just changed my sheets last night, so everything’s clean and fresh in my room. She should sleep well enough.

After I do my last few tasks and lock up for the night, I set an alarm for six. Throwing myself onto the couch with a blanket, I try not to think about Willa Sutter sleeping in my bed.

It takes me a very long time to fall asleep.





Willa





Playlist: “One Way Or Another,” Blondie





I stir from sleep groggily, moaning in pleasure. The scent surrounding me is obscenely arousing. I’m dreaming about misty pine forests and a blond-haired guy in flannel who has to start slowly unbuttoning his shirt when it comes time to fell a tree.

Wrenching awake, I sit up and realize I am neither in my bed nor in my apartment. If I go by the spruce and cedar scent infusing the air, the neurotic tidiness of my surroundings, I’m in Ryder’s bedroom, tangled in his sheets. His naked body has slept here.

Not that I’ve tried to picture Ryder’s naked body or anything. Not that I’m doing that vividly now.

Don’t. Just don’t, brain. Don’t go there. Don’t think about it, about the solid slab I’ve felt beneath his shirt every time I poked his stomach, about how much I’d probably enjoy dragging my fingers through his dirty blond bedhead hair. Definitely don’t think about those bulging biceps, always straining as he moves. Don’t think about them flexing while he braces himself above me, thrusting—

“Whoa!” I tumble off the mattress, scrambling upright. I have to get out of here. I’m drowning in hormones from my sexy lumberjack dream and this room is quicksand. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to escape its tug.

I hustle through straightening his bed, then quietly tiptoe out and scoop up my bag. A crisp pile of papers sits on the table, along with a note in his tidy scrawl.

The semester’s notes. All yours. Take the container with your name on it in the fridge.

– Ryder

My heart turns gooey and slinks down to my stomach. He printed the notes for me. A huge wave of relief that I finally have everything I need for this class is quickly replaced by suspicion. I’m not used to genuinely nice gestures from the lumberjack. I should run a little quality assurance on these bad boys in case this is his jackass idea of a funny prank. I flip through each page carefully, waiting for them to switch to hieroglyphs, but they prove to be in English and organized in chronological order.

First the delicious meal, then the hospitality of his bed, now these notes. The lumberjack is full of surprises.

Carefully, I slip the papers into my bag, sweeping up his note once again. Take the container with your name on it. “Bossy,” I grumble. He might be bossy, but this time I’m doing what he says because those were some damn good Swedish meatballs and twisty noodles he made. Container in hand, I pad softly toward the door, stepping into my tennis shoes, when I steal a glance toward the couch. Ryder snores softly, one hand draped off the edge of the sofa. What does he look like, asleep? When his defenses are down, is he just as maddening to stare at?