The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(76)

She practically fell against the door, her body trembling from the cold. When the wood opened, Preston’s eyebrows flew up, his gaze layered with concern. “Katherine, Jesus. Get inside.” He grabbed her elbow and dragged her into the warm entryway.

Water sluiced off her clothes and onto his wooden floor. She wrapped her arms around herself, but it didn’t help with the shivering. “Th-thank you,” she got out. “Do you h-have a cloth or—”

Preston scooped her up and began carrying her deeper into the lodge. No doubt she was getting him—and the entire place—wet. “Put m-me down.”

“I won’t, so save your breath. Your lips are blue, Kat.”

She stopped arguing and shamefully pressed her face into the warmth of his throat for body heat. Yes, definitely body heat. And if she inhaled his scent once or twice, that was no one else’s concern.

They entered a bathing chamber that was larger than her bedroom in the city. It had a huge clawfoot tub, a rain shower, sink and skylight. He set her down onto the rug. “Let me start a hot bath, all right?”

She was pretty certain she nodded, but her whole body was shaking, so who could tell?

He strode to the tub and turned the taps, adjusting the water to where he liked, then came back to the rug. He was dressed down, in just a plain white shirt, no necktie or collar, and navy-blue trousers. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a smattering of dark hair on his arms. She could remember feeling that hair tickle her palms as she stroked his arms in bed.

“I’m going to help you out of these wet clothes and into the tub.”

“I c-can do it.”

“Can you?” He quirked a brow. “I have my doubts, and I’d rather get you into the hot water quickly. What if I get you down to your chemise? Then you can do the rest.”

“All r-right.”

Preston worked with impressive speed, removing her wet garments with the dexterity of someone who hadn’t been outside in the cold rain. Her chemise offered a small amount of modesty as he untied her drawers and removed them, along with her stockings. Then she was bare, except for the thin undergarment. He helped her step into the tub, then dropped her elbow. After he released her, his eyes raked the length of her body, and everywhere he looked broke out into a fresh round of goose bumps. She’d forgotten the power of that intense stare of his.

Clearing his throat, he turned and went to the rug. “I’ll take your things and put them by the fire. They’ll be dry in a few hours. In the meantime, I’ll bring you something to wear and leave it outside the door.”

He paused on the threshold. “Just shout if you need anything. I won’t be far.” Then he disappeared.

She whipped off her sodden chemise and tossed it to the tile. Then she sank into the tub, groaning as the hot water enveloped her frozen skin. Steam wafted up and filled the room like smoke. She closed her eyes and wiggled her fingers and toes, grateful to have feeling finally returned.

Hmm. Preston’s washroom. She looked around, trying to find little touches of him here. Other than some shaving supplies on the sink, there wasn’t any hint of him. The decor was fairly impersonal, in his usual function-over-style manner. Some prints would go a long way toward—

Why? Why was she trying to redecorate and bring softness to this man’s life? He clearly didn’t want it—nor did he deserve it.

After a bit, she added more hot water and continued soaking until her skin wrinkled. There was only so much she could sit with her own thoughts, though. She decided to get out and go talk to him, even if she’d need to do it while severely underdressed.

She used the towel to dry herself off, then peeked around the door to see what clothes were waiting. She found a union suit and one of Preston’s shirts. Strange to wear men’s clothing, but she liked it. The garments were easy to put on and quite warm. Moreover, the cloth smelled like Preston, which gave her a tiny thrill. It was like having him close by all the time.

When she wandered downstairs, she was surprised to find him in the kitchen, a small towel slung over his shoulder with fish spread out on the marble workbench.

“There you are,” he said, his gaze darting to her legs. Did he swallow, or was that her imagination?

“Thank you for the clothes. I had to roll up the bottom cuffs on the union suit a bit.”

“I see that. Do you feel better?”

“Yes. I apologize for crashing in here like a soaked sponge.”

“I admit I was surprised, but pleasantly surprised. I’m glad you came to visit. Though, didn’t you know about the impending storm?”

“No.” She sat on one of the stools at the workbench. “How would I have heard?”

“I know you’re walking to the hotel every day.” He lifted his shoulder but didn’t take his eyes off the fish. “I assumed someone there would’ve told you.”

She generally didn’t stop to chat in the hotel. Inviting friendship meant explaining she was here by herself, which seemed risky to a city girl. “What are you doing to those fish?”

“Cleaning them for dinner.” He dragged a knife through the belly of a fish and peeled it open, then reached in to pull out the insides. “Would you like to help?”

“Absolutely not.” Her stomach roiled just watching him do it. “That’s disgusting.”